eAPACHES 
OF  NEWYORK 


ALFRED  HENRY  LEWIS 


• 


LIBRARY 

UNIV::F<SITY  OF 
C/UIF  OHNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


The 


Apaches  of  New  York 


BY 


ALFRED   HENRY   LEWIS 

Author  of ' '  Wolfville,  "  "  The  Boss, "  * '  Peggy  O  'AW, ' 
"  The  Sunset  Trail,"  "The  Throwback,  " 
"  The  Story  of Paul  Jones,"  etc. 


M.  A.  DONOHUE  &  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY 

G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY 

Entered  at  Stationers  Hall 

London 


The  Apaches  of  New  York 


Made  in  U.  S.  A. 


TO 

ARTHUR  WEST  LITTLE 


PREFACE. 

These  stories  are  true  in  name  and  time  and  place. 
None  of  them  in  its  incident  happened  as  far  away 
as  three  years  ago.  They  were  written  to  show  you 
how  the  other  half  live — in  New  York.  I  had  them 
direct  from  the  veracious  lips  of  the  police.  The 
gangsters  themselves  contributed  sundry  details. 

You  will  express  amazement  as  you  read  that 
they  carry  so  slight  an  element  of  Sing  Sing  and 
the  Death  Chair.  Such  should  have  been  no  doubt 
the  very  proper  and  lawful  climax  of  more  than  one 
of  them,  and  would  were  it  not  for  what  differences 
subsist  between  a  moral  and  a  legal  certainty.  The 
police  know  many  things  they  cannot  prove  in  court, 
the  more  when  the  question  at  bay  concerns  inti 
mately,  for  life  or  death,  a  society  where  the 
"snitch"  is  an  abomination  and  to  "squeal"  the  sin 
gle  great  offense. 

Besides,  you  are  not  to  forget  the  politician,  who 
in  defense  of  a  valuable  repeater  palsies  police  effort 
with  the  cold  finger  of  his  interference.  With 
apologies  to  that  order,  the  three  links  of  the  Odd- 
Fellows  are  an  example  of  the  policeman,  the  crim 
inal  and  the  politician.  The  latter  is  the  middle  link, 


PREFACE 


and  holds  the  other  two  together  while  keeping  them 
apart. 

ALFRED  HENRY  LEWIS. 
NEW  YORK  CITY,  Dec.  22,  1911. 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     EAT-'EM-UP  JACK 9 

II.  THE  BABY'S  FINGERS     ......     26 

III.  How  PIOGGI  WENT  TO  ELMIRA     .     r.,     51 

IV.  IKE  THE  BLOOD  ........    68 

V.  INDIAN  LOUIE    .......     89 

VI.  How  JACKEEN  SLEW  THE  Doc      .      .117 

VII.  LEONI  THE  TROUBLE  MAKER  .      .      .    136 

VIII.  THE  WAGES  OF  THE  SNITCH  .      .      .155 

IX.     LITTLE  Bow  KUM 181 

X.  THE  COOKING  OF  CRAZY  BUTCH  .      .    199 

XI.  BIG  MIKE  ABRAMS  ......    222 

XII.  THE  GOING  OF  BIFF  ELLISON  .      .      .251 


The  Apaches  of  New  York 


i. 

EAT-'EM-UP  JACK 

Chick  Tricker  kept  a  house  of  call  at  One  Hun 
dred  and  Twenty-eight  Park  Row.  There  he  sold 
strong  drink,  wine  and  beer,  mostly  beer,  and  the 
thirsty  sat  about  at  sloppy  tables  and  enjoyed  them 
selves.  When  night  came  there  was  music,  and  those 
who  would — and  could — arose  and  danced.  One 
Hundred  and  Twenty-eight  Park  Row  was  in  re 
cent  weeks  abolished.  The  Committee  of  Fourteen, 
one  of  those  restless  moral  influences  so  common  in 
New  York,  complained  to  the  Powers  of  Excise  and 
had  the  license  revoked. 

It  was  a  mild  February  evening.  The  day  shift 
had  gone  off  watch  at  One  Hundred  and  Twenty- 
eight,  leaving  the  night  shift  in  charge,  and — all 
things  running  smoothly — Tricker  decided  upon  an 
evening  out.  It  might  have  been  ten  o'clock  when, 
in  deference  to  that  decision,  he  stepped  into  the 
street.  It  was  commencing  to  snow — flakes  as  big 

9 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

and  soft  and  clinging  as  a  baby's  hand.  Not  that 
Tricker — hardy  soul — much  minded  snow. 

Tricker,  having  notions  about  meeting  Indian 
Louie,  swung  across  to  Roosevelt  Street.  Dodging 
down  five  steps,  he  opened  the  door  of  a  dingy  wine- 
cellar.  It  was  the  nesting-place  of  a  bevy  of  street 
musicians,  a  dozen  of  whom  were  scattered  about, 
quaffing  chianti.  Their  harps,  fiddles  and  hand- 
organs  had  been  chucked  into  corners,  and  a  general 
air  of  relaxation  pervaded  the  scene.  The  room  was 
blue  with  smoke,  rich  in  the  odor  of  garlic,  and, 
since  the  inmates  all  talked  at  once,  there  arose  a 
prodigious  racket. 

Near  where  Tricker  seated  himself  reposed  a 
hand-organ.  Crouched  against  it  was  a  little,  mouse- 
hued  monkey,  fast  asleep.  The  day's  work  had  told 
on  him.  'Fatigued  of  much  bowing  and  scraping  for 
coppers,  the  diminutive  monkey  slept  soundly.  Not 
all  the  hubbub  served  to  shake  the  serene  profundity 
of  his  dreams. 

Tricker  idly  gave  the  handle  of  the  organ  a  twist. 
Perhaps  three  notes  were  elicited.  It  was  enough. 
The  little  monkey  was  weary,  but  he  knew  the  voice 
and  heard  in  it  a  trumpet-call  to  duty.  With  the 
earliest  squeak  he  sprang  up — winking,  blinking — 
and,  doffing  his  small  red  hat,  began  begging  for 
pennies.  Tricker  gave  him  a  dime,  not  thinking  it 
right  to  disturb  his  slumbers  for  nothing.  The 
mouse-hued  one  tucked  it  away  in  some  recondite 

10 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

pocket  of  his  scanty  jacket,  and  then,  the  organ  hav 
ing  lapsed  into  silence,  curled  up  for  another  snooze. 

Tricker  paid  for  his  glass  of  wine,  and — since  he 
saw  nothing  of  Indian  Louie,  and  as  a  source  of  in 
terest  had  exhausted  the  monkey — lounged  off  into 
the  dark. 

In  Chatham  Square  Tricker  met  a  big-chested 
policeman.  Tricker  knew  the  policeman,  having  en 
countered  him  officially.  As  the  latter  strutted 
along,  a  small,  mustard-colored  dog  came  crouching 
at  his  heels. 

"What's  the  dog  for?"  Tricker  asked. 

Being  in  an  easv  mood,  the  trivial  possessed  a 
charm. 

The  policeman  bent  upon  the  little  dog  a  benign 
eye.  The  little  dog  glanced  up  shyly,  wagging  a 
wistful  tail. 

"He's  lost,"  vouchsafed  the  policeman,  "and  he's 
put  it  up  to  me  to  find  out  where  he  lives."  He  ex 
plained  that  all  lost  dogs  make  hot-foot  for  the  near 
est  policeman.  "They  know  what  a  cop  is  for,"  said 
the  big-chested  one.  Then,  to  the  little  dog:  "Come 
on,  my  son;  we'll  land  you  all  right  yet." 

Tricker  continued  his  stroll.  At  Doyers  Street 
and  the  Bowery  he  entered  Barney  Flynn's.  There 
were  forty  customers  hanging  about.  These  loi 
terers  were  panhandlers  of  low  degree;  they  were 
beneath  the  notice  of  Tricker,  who  was  a  purple 
patrician  of  the  gangs.  One  of  them  could  have 

11 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

lived  all  day  on  a  quarter.  It  meant  bed — ten  cents 
— and  three  glasses  of  beer,  each  with  a  free  lunch 
which  would  serve  as  a  meal.  Bowery  beer  is  sold 
by  the  glass ;  but  the  glass  holds  a  quart.  The  Bow 
ery  has  refused  to  be  pinched  by  the  beer  trust. 

In  Flynn's  was  the  eminent  Chuck  Connors,  his 
head  on  his  arm  and  his  arm  on  a  table.  Intoxi 
cated?  Perish  the  thought!  Merely  taking  his 
usual  forty  winks  after  dinner,  which  repast  had 
consisted  of  four  beef-stews.  Tricker  gave  him  a 
facetious  thump  on  the  back,  but  he  woke  in  a 
bilious  mood,  full  of  haughtiness  and  cold  reserve. 

There  is  a  notable  feature  in  Flynn's.  The  East 
Side  is  in  its  way  artistic.  Most  of  the  places  are 
embellished  with  pictures  done  on  the  walls,  presum 
ably  by  the  old  monsters  of  the  Police  News.  On 
the  rear  wall  of  Flynn's  is  a  portrait  of  Washington 
on  a  violent  white  horse.  The  Father  of  his  Coun 
try  is  in  conventional  blue  and  buff,  waving  a 
vehement  blade. 

"Who  is  it?"  demanded  Proprietor  Flynn  of  the 
artist,  when  first  brought  to  bay  by  the  violent  one 
on  the  horse. 

"Who  is  it?"  retorted  the  artist  indignantly. 
"Who  should  it  be  but  Washin'ton.  the  Father  of 
his  Country?" 

"Washin'ton?"  repeated  Flynn.  "Who's  Wash 
in'ton?" 

"Don't  you  know  who  Washin'ton  is  ?  Say,  you 
12 


THE   APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

ought  to  go  to  night  school !  Washin'ton's  th'  duck 
who  frees  this  country  from  th'  English." 

"An'  he  bate  th'  English,  did  he?  I  can  well  be- 
lave  it !  Yez  can  see  be  th'  face  of  him  he's  a  brave 
man."  Then,  following  a  rapt  silence:  "Say,  I'll 
tell  ye  what!  Paint  me  a  dead  Englishman  right 
down  there  be  his  horse's  fut,  an'  I'll  give  ye  foor 
dollars  more." 

The  generous  offer  was  accepted,  and  the  fore 
ground  enriched  with  a  dead  grenadier. 

Coming  out  of  Flynn's,  Tricker  went  briefly  into 
the  Chinese  Theater.  The  pig-tailed  audience,  sit 
ting  on  the  backs  of  the  chairs  with  their  feet  in  the 
wooden  seats,  were  enjoying  the  performance 
hugely.  Tricker  listened  to  the  dialogue  but  a  mo 
ment;  it  was  unsatisfactory  and  sounded  like  a  cat- 
fight. 

In  finding  his  way  out  of  Doyers  Street,  Tricker 
stopped  for  a  moment  in  a  little  doggery  from  which 
came  the  tump-tump  of  a  piano  and  the  scuffle  of  a 
dance.  The  room,  not  thirty  feet  long,  was  cut  in 
two  by  a  ramshackle  partition.  On  the  grimy  wall 
hung  a  placard  which  carried  this  moderate  warn 
ing: 


13 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 


No  discussion  of 

POLITICS 

or 

RELIGION 

Allowed.                      Xkis  goes! 

The  management  seemed  to  be  in  the  hands  of  a 
morose  personage,  as  red  as  a  boiled  lobster,  who 
acted  behind  the  bar.  The  piano  was  of  that  flat, 
tin-pan  tone  which  bespeaks  the  veteran.  It  was 
drummed  upon  by  a  bleary  virtuoso,  who  at  sight 
of  Tricker — for  whose  favor  he  yearned — began 
banging  forth  a  hurly-burly  that  must  have  set  on 
edge  the  teeth  of  every  piano  in  the  vicinity.  The 
darky  who  was  dancing  redoubled  his  exertions.  Al 
together,  Tricker's  entrance  was  not  without  eclat. 
Not  that  he  seemed  impressed  as,  flinging  himself 
into  a  chair,  he  listlessly  called  for  apollinaris. 

"What  do  youse  pay  him?"  asked  Tricker  of  the 
boiled  barkeeper,  indicating  as  he  did  so  the  hard 
working  colored  person. 

"Pad-money!" — with  a  slighting  glance.  "Pad- 
money;  an'  it's  twict  too  much." 

14 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Pad-money  means  pay  for  a  bed. 

"Well,  I  should  say  so!"  coincided  Tricker,  with 
the  weary  yet  lofty  manner  of  one  who  is  a  judge. 

In  one  corner  were  two  women  and  a  trio  of  men. 
The  men  were  thieves  of  the  cheap  grade  known  as 
lush-workers.  These  beasts  of  prey  lie  about  the 
East  Side  grog  shops,  and  when  some  sailor  ashore 
leaves  a  place,  showing  considerable  slant,  they  tail 
him  and  take  all  he  has.  They  will  plunder  their 
victim  in  sight  of  a  whole  street.  No  one  will  tell. 
The  first  lesson  of  Gangland  is  never  to  inform  nor 
p;ive  evidence.  One  who  does  is  called  snitch ;  and 
J.he  wages  of  the  snitch  is  death.  The  lush-workers 
pay  a  percentage  of  their  pillage,  to  what  saloons 
they  infest,  for  the  privilege  of  lying  in  wait. 

Tricker  pointed  to  the  younger  of  the  two  women 
— about  eighteen,  she  was. 

"Two  years  ago,"  said  Tricker,  addressing  the 
boiled  barman,  "I  had  her  pinched  an'  turned  over 
to  the  Aid  Society.  She's  so  young  I  thought  mebby 
they  could  save  her." 

"Save  her !"  repeated  the  boiled  one  in  weary  dis 
gust.  "Youse  can't  save  'em.  I  used  to  try  that 
meself.  That  was  long  ago.  Now" — tossing  his 
hand  with  a  resigned  air — "now,  whenever  I  see  a 
skirt  who's  goin'  to  hell,  I  pay  her  fare." 

One  of  the  three  men  was  old  and  gray  of  hair. 
He  used  to  be  a  gonoph,  and  had  worked  the  rattlers 
and  ferries  in  his  youth.  But  he  got  settled  a  couple 

15 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

of  times,  and  it  broke  his  nerve.  There  is  an  age 
limit  in  pocket-picking.  No  pickpocket  is  good  after 
he  passes  forty  years;  so  far,  Dr.  Osier  was  right. 
Children  from  twelve  to  fourteen  do  the  best  work. 
Their  hands  are  small  and  steady;  their  confidence 
has  not  been  shaken  by  years  in  prison.  There  are 
twenty  New  York  Fagins — the  police  use  the  Dick 
ens  name — training  children  to  pick  pockets.  These 
Fagins  have  dummy  subjects  faked  up,  their  gar 
ments  covered  with  tiny  bells.  The  pockets  are 
filled — watch,  purse,  card-case,  handkerchief,  gloves. 
Not  until  a  pupil  can  empty  every  pocket,  without 
ringing  a  bell,  is  he  fit  to  go  out  into  the  world  and 
look  for  boobs. 

"If  Indian  Louie  shows  up,"  remarked  Tricker  to 
the  boiled-lobster  barman,  as  he  made  ready  to  go, 
"tell  him  to  blow  'round  tomorry  evenin'  to  One 
Hundred  and  Twenty-eight." 

Working  his  careless  way  back  to  the  Bowery, 
Tricker  strolled  north  to  where  that  historic  thor 
oughfare  merges  into  Third  Avenue.  In  Great 
Jones  Street,  round  the  corner  from  Third  Avenue, 
Paul  Kelly  kept  the  New  Brighton.  Tricker  de 
cided  to  look  in  casually  upon  this  hall  of  mirth,  and 
— as  one  interested — study  trade  conditions.  True, 
there  \vas  a  coolness  between  himself  and  Kelly, 
albeit,  both  being  of  the  Five  Points,  they  were  of 
the  same  tribe.  What  then?  As  members  of  the 
gang  nobility,  had  they  not  won  the  right  to  nurse 

16 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

a  private  feud?  De  Bracy  and  Bois  Guilbert  were 
both  Crusaders,  and  yet  there  is  no  record  of  any 
lost  love  between  them. 

In  the  roll  of  gang  honor  Kelly's  name  was  writ 
ten  high.  Having  been  longer  and  more  explosively 
before  the  public,  his  fame  was  even  greater  than 
Tricker's.  There  was,  too,  a  profound  background 
of  politics  to  the  New  Brighton.  It  was  strong  with 
Tammany  Hall,  and,  per  incident,  in  right  with  the 
police.  For  these  double  reasons  of  Kelly's  fame, 
and  that  atmosphere  of  final  politics  which  invested 
it,  the  New  Brighton  was  deeply  popular.  Every 
foot  of  dancing  floor  was  in  constant  demand,  while 
would-be  merry-makers,  crowded  off  for  want  of 
room,  sat  in  a  triple  fringe  about  the  walls. 

Along  one  side  of  the  dancing  room  was  ranged 
a  row  of  tables.  A  young  person,  just  struggling 
into  gang  notice,  relinquished  his  chair  at  one  of 
these  to  Tricker.  This  was  in  respectful  recognition 
of  the  exalted  position  in  Gangland  held  by  Tricker. 
Tricker  unbent  toward  the  young  person  in  a  toler 
ant  nod,  and  accepted  his  submissive  politeness  as 
though  doing  him  a  favor.  Tricker  was  right.  His 
notice,  even  such  as  it  was,  graced  and  illustrated 
the  polite  young  person  in  the  eyes  of  all  who  be 
held  it,  and  identified  him  as  one  of  whom  the  fu 
ture  would  hear. 

Every  East  Side  dance  hall  has  a  sheriff,  who  acts 
as  floor  manager  and  settles  difficult  questions  of 

17 


"THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

propriety.  It  often  happens  that,  in  an  excess  of 
ardor  and  a  paucity  of  room,  two  couples  in  their 
dancing  seek  to.  occupy  the  same  space  on  the  floor. 
He  who  makes  two  blades  of  grass  grow  where  but 
one  grew  before,  may  help  his  race  and  doubtless 
does.  The  rule,  however,  stops  with  grass  and  does 
not  reach  to  dancing.  He  who  tries  to  make  two 
couples  dance,  where  only  one  had  danced  before, 
but  lays  the  bed-plates  of  a  riot.  Where  all  the  gen 
tlemen  are  spirited,  and  the  ladies  even  more  so, 
the  result  is  certain  in  its  character,  and  in  no  wise 
hard  to  guess.  Wherefore  the  dance  hall  sheriff  is 
not  without  a  mission.  Likewise  his  honorable  post 
is  full  of  peril,  and  he  must  be  of  the  stern  ore  from 
which  heroes  are  forged. 

The  sheriff  of  the  New  Brighton  was  Eat-'Em- 
Up-Jack  McManus.  He  had  been  a  prize-fighter  of 
more  or  less  inconsequence,  but  a  liking  for  mixed 
ale  and  a  difficulty  in  getting  to  weight  had  long 
before  cured  him  of  that.  He  had  won  his  nom  de 
guerre  on  the  battle-field,  where  good  knights  were 
wont  to  win  their  spurs.  Meeting  one  of  whose  con 
duct  he  disapproved,  he  had  criticized  the  offender 
with  his  teeth,  and  thereafter  was  everywhere  hailed 
as  Eat-'Em-Up-Jack. 

Eat-'Em-Up-Jack  wore  his  honors  modestly,  as 
great  souls  ever  do,  and  there  occurred  nothing  at 
the  New  Brighton  to  justify  that  re-baptism.  There 
he  preserved  the  proprieties  with  a  black-jack,  and 

18 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

never  once  brought  his  teeth  into  play.  Did  some 
boor  transgress,  Eat-' Em-Up- Jack  collared  him,  and 
cast  him  into  the  outer  darkness  of  Great  Jones 
Street.  If  the  delinquent  foolishly  resisted,  Eat- 
'Em-Up-Jack  emphasized  that  dismissal  with  his 
boot.  In  extreme  instances  he  smote  upon  him  with 
a  black-jack — ever  worn  ready  on  his  wrist,  al 
though  delicately  hidden,  when  not  upon  active  ser 
vice,  in  his  coat  sleeve. 

Tricker,  drinking  seltzer  and  lemon,  sat  watch 
ing  the  dancers  as  they  swept  by.  He  himself  was 
of  too  grave  a  cast  to  dance;  it  would  have  mis 
matched  with  his  position. 

Eat-'Em-Up-Jack,  who  could  claim  social  eleva 
tion  by  virtue  of  his  being  sheriff,  came  and  stood 
by  Tricker's  table.  The  pair  greeted  one  another. 
Their  manner,  while  marked  of  a  careful  courtesy, 
was  distant  and  owned  nothing  of  warmth.  The 
feuds  of  Kelly  were  the  feuds  of  Eat-' Em-Up- Jack, 
and  the  latter  knew  that  Tricker  and  Kelly  stood  not 
as  brothers. 

As  Eat-' Em-Up- Jack  paused  by  Tricker's  table, 
passing  an  occasional  remark  with  that  visitor  from 
Park  Row,  Bill  Harrington  with  Goldie  Cora 
whirled  by  on  the  currents  of  the  Beautiful  Blue 
Danube.  Tricker's  expert  tastes  rejected  with  dis 
favor  the  dancing  of  Goldie  Cora. 

"I  don't  like  the  way  she  t'rows  her  feet,"  he  said. 

Now  Goldie  Cora  was  the  belle  of  the  New  Brigh- 
19 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

ton.  Moreover,  Eat-' Em-Up- Jack  liked  the  way  she 
threw  her  feet,  and  was  honest  in  his  admiration. 
As  much  might  be  said  of  Harrington,  who  had 
overheard  Tricker's  remark.  Eat-' Em-Up- Jack,  de 
fending  his  own  judgment,  declared  that  Goldie 
Cora  was  the  sublimation  of  grace,  and  danced  like 
a  leaf  in  a  puff  of  wind.  He  closed  by  discrediting 
not  only  the  opinion  but  the  parentage  of  Tricker, 
and  advised  him  to  be  upon  his  way  lest  worse  hap 
pen  him. 

"Beat  it,  before  I  bump  me  black-jack  off  your 
bean !"  was  the  way  it  was  sternlv  put  by  Eat-'Em- 
Up-Jack. 

Tricker,  cool  and  undismayed,  waved  his  hand  as 
though  brushing  aside  a  wearisome  insect. 

"Can  that  black-jack  guff,"  he  retorted.  "Un'er- 
stan' ;  your  bein'  a  fighter  don't  get  youse  nothin' 
wit'  me!" 

Harrington  came  up.  Having  waltzed  the  en 
tire  length  of  the  Beautiful  Blue  Danube,  he  had 
abandoned  Goldie  Cora,  and  was  now  prepared  to 
personally  resent  the  imputation  inherent  in 
Tricker's  remark  anent  that  fair  one's  feet. 

"He  don't  like  the  way  you  t'row  your  feet,  eh? 
I'll  make  him  like  it." 

Thus  spake  Harrington  to  Goldie  Cora,  as  he 
turned  from  her  to  seek  out  Tricker. 

No,  Gangland  is  not  so  ceremonious  as  to  demand 
that  you  lead  the  lady  to  a  seat.  Dance  ended,  it  is 

20 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

good  form  to  leave  her  sticking  in  the  furrow,  even 
as  a  farmer  might  his  plow,  and  walk  away. 

Harrington  bitterly  added  his  views  to  Eat-'Em- 
Up-Jack's,  and  something  was  said  about  croaking 
Tricker  then  and  there.  The  threats  of  Harrington, 
as  had  those  of  Eat-'Em-Up-Jack,  glanced  off  the 
cool  surface  of  Tricker  like  the  moon's  rays  off  a 
field  of  ice.  He  was  sublimely  indifferent,  and 
didn't  so  much  as  get  off  his  chair.  Only  his  right 
hand  stole  under  his  coat-skirt  in  an  unmistakable 
way. 

"Why,  you  big  stiff!  w'at  be  youse  tryin'  to  give 
me?"  was  his  only  separate  notice  of  Harrington. 
Then,  to  both :  "Unless  you  guys  is  lookin'  to  give 
th'  coroner  a  job,  youse  won't  start  nothin'  here. 
Take  it  from  me  that,  w'en  I'm  bounced  out  of  a 
dump  like  this,  the  bouncin'  '11  come  off  in  th' 
smoke." 

Eat-'Em-Up-Jack,  being  neither  so  quick  nor  so 
eloquent  as  Tricker,  could  only  retort,  "That's  all 
right !  I'll  hand  you  yours  before  I'm  done !" 

Harrington,  after  his  first  outbreak,  said  nothing, 
being  privily  afraid  of  Tricker,  and  more  or  less 
held  by  the  spell  of  his  fell  repute.  Eat-'Em-Up- 
Jack,  who  feared  no  man,  was  kept  in  check  by  his 
obligations  as  sheriff — that,  and  a  sense  of  duty. 
True,  the  situation  irked  him  sorely;  he  felt  as 
though  he  were  in  handcuffs.  But  the  present  was 
no  common  case.  Tricker  would  shoot ;  and  a  hail 

21 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

of  lead  down  the  length  of  the  dancing  floor  meant 
loss  in  dollars  and  cents.  This  last  was  something 
which  Kelly,  always  a  business  man  and  liking 
money,  would  be  the  first  to  condemn  and  the  last 
to  condone.  It  would  black-eye  the  place ;  since  few 
care  to  dance  where  the  ballroom  may  become  a 
battle-field  and  bullets  zip  and  sing. 

"If  it  was  only  later!"  said  Eat-'Em-Up  Jack, 
wistfully. 

"Later?"  retorted  Tricker.  "That's  easy.  You 
close  at  one,  an'  that's  ten  minutes  from  now.  Let 
the  mob  make  its  getaway;  an'  after  that  youse 
ducks  '11  find  me  waitin'  'round  the  corner  in  Thoid 
Avenue." 

Tricker,  manner  nonchalant  to  the  point  of  insult, 
loitered  to  the  door,  pausing  on  his  way  to  take  a 
leisurely  drink  at  the  bar. 

"You  dubs,"  he  called  back,  as  he  stepped  out 
.nto  Great  Jones  Street,  "better  bring  your  gatts !" 

Gatts  is  East  Sidese  for  pistols. 

Harrington  didn't  like  the  looks  of  things.  He 
was  sorry,  he  said,  addressing  Eat-'Em-Up- Jack,  but 
he  wouldn't  be  able  to  accompany  him  to  that  Third 
Avenue  tryst.  He  must  see  Goldie  Cora  home.  The 
Police  had  just  issued  an  order,  calculated  invidiously 
to  inconvenience  and  annoy  every  lady  found  in  the 
streets  after  midnight  unaccompanied  by  an  escort. 

Eat-'Em-Up- Jack  hardly  heard  him.  Personally 
he  wouldn't  have  turned  hand  or  head  to  have  had 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

the  company  of  a  dozen  Harringtons.  Eat-'Em-Up- 
Jack,  while  lacking  many  things,  lacked  not  at  all  in 
heart. 

The  New  Brighton  closed  in  due  time.  Eat-'Em- 
Up-Jack  waited  until  sure  the  junction  of  Great 
Jones  Street  and  Third  Avenue  was  quite  deserted. 
As  he  came  'round  the  corner,  gun  in  hand,  Tricker 
— watchful  as  a  cat — stepped  out  of  a  stairway. 
There  was  a  blazing,  rattling  fusillade — twelve  shots 
in  all.  When  the  shooting  was  at  an  end,  Eat-'Em- 
Up-Jack  had  vanished.  Tricker,  save  for  a  reason, 
would  have  followed  his  vanishing  example;  there 
was  a  bullet  embedded  in  the  calf  of  his  leg. 

Tricker  hopped  painfully  into  a  stairway,  where 
he  might  have  advantage  of  the  double  gloom.  He 
had  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  was  coolly  leaning 
against  the  entrance,  when  two  policemen  came  fun 
ning  up. 

"What  was  that  shooting?"  demanded  one. 

"Oh,  a  couple  of  geeks  started  to  hand  it  to  each 
other,"  was  Tricker's  careless  reply. 

"Did  either  get  hurt?" 

"One  of  'em  cops  it  in  th'  leg.     Th'  other  blew." 

"What  became  of  the  one  who's  copped?" 

"Oh,  him?  He  hops  into  one  of  th'  stairways 
along  here." 

The  officers  didn't  see  the  spreading  pool  of  blood 
near  Tricker's  foot.  They  hurried  off  to  make  a 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

ransack  of  the  stairways,  while  Tricker  hobbled  out 
to  a  cab  he  had  signaled,  and  drove  away. 

Twenty-four  hours  later ! 

Not  a  block  from  where  he'd  fought  his  battle 
with  Tricker,  Eat- 'Em-Up- Jack  was  walking  in 
Third  Avenue.  He  was  as  lone  as  Lot's  wife;  for 
he  nourished  misanthropic  sentiments  and  discour 
aged  company.  It  was  a  moonless  night  and  very 
dark,  the  snow  still  coming  down.  What  with  the 
storm  and  the  hour,  the  streets  were  as  empty  as  a 
church. 

As  Eat-' Em-Up- Jack  passed  the  building  farthest 
from  the  corner  lamp,  a  crouching  figure  stepped  out 
of  the  doorway.  Had  it  been  two  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  instead  of  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
you  would  have  seen  that  he  of  the  crouching  figure 
was  smooth  and  dark-skinned  as  to  face,  and  that  his 
blue-black  hair  had  been  cut  after  a  tonsorial  fashion 
popular  along  the  Bowery  as  the  Guinea  Lop.  The 
crouching  one  carried  in  his  hand  what  seemed  to  be 
a  rolled-up  newspaper.  In  that  rolled-up  paper  lay 
hidden  a  two-foot  piece  of  lead  pipe. 

The  crouching  blue-black  one  crept  after  Eat-'Em- 
Up-Jack,  making  no  more  noise  than  a  cat.  He  up 
lifted  the  lead  pipe,  grasping  it  the  while  with  both 
hands. 

Eat-' Em-Up- Jack,  as  unaware  of  his  peril  as  of 
what  was  passing  in  the  streets  of  Timbuctoo, 
slouched  heavily  forward,  deep  in  thought.  Perhaps 


he  was  considering  a  misspent  youth,  and  chances 
thrown  away. 

The  lead  pipe  came  down. 

There  was  a  dull  crash,  and  Eat-' Em-Up- Jack — 
without  word  or  cry — fell  forward  on  his  face. 
Blood  ran  from  mouth  and  ears,  and  melted  redly 
into  the  snow. 

The  crouching  blue-black  one  shrank  back  into  the 
stairway,  and  was  seen  no  more.  The  street  re 
turned  to  utter  emptiness.  There  remained  only 
the  lifeless  body  of  Eat-' Em-Up- Jack.  Nothing  be 
yond,  save  the  softly  falling  veil  of  snow,  with  the 
street  lamps  shining  through. 


II. 

THE   BABY'S    FINGERS 

It  was  a  Central  Office  man  who  told  me  how  the 
baby  lost  its  fingers.  I  like  Central  Office  men ;  they 
live  romances  and  have  adventures.  The  man  I 
most  shrink  from  is  your  dull,  proper  individual  to 
whom  nothing  happens.  You  have  seen  a  hundred 
such.  Rigidly  correct,  they  go  uneventfully  to  and 
fro  upon  their  little  respectable  tracks.  Evenings, 
from  the  safe  yet  severe  vantage  of  their  little  re 
spectable  porches,  they  pass  judgment  upon  human 
ity  from  across  the  front  fence.  After  which,  they 
go  inside  and  weary  their  wives  with  their  tasteless, 
pale  society,  while  those  melancholy  matrons  ques 
tion  themselves,  in  a  spirit  of  tacit  despair,  concern 
ing  the  blessings  of  matrimony.  In  the  end,  first 
thanking  heaven  that  they  are  not  as  other  men,  they 
retire  to  bed,  to  rise  in  the  dawning  and  repeat  the 
history  of  every  pulseless  yesterday  of  their  exist 
ence.  Nothing  ever  overtakes  them  that  doesn't 
overtake  a  clam.  They  are  interesting,  can  be  in 
teresting,  to  no  one  save  themselves.  To  talk  with 
one  an  hour  is  like  being  lost  in  the  desert  an  hour. 
I  prefer  people  into  whose  lives  intrudes  some  ele- 

26 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

ment  of  adventure,  and  who,  as  they  roll  out  of  their 
blankets  in  the  morning,  cannot  give  you,  word  and 
minute,  just  what  they  will  be  saying  and  doing 
every  hour  in  the  coming  twelve. 

My  Central  Office  friend,  in  telling  of  the  baby's 
absent  fingers,  began  by  speaking  of  Johnny  Span 
ish.  Spanish  has  been  sent  to  prison  for  no  less 
than  seven  years.  Dribben  and  Blum  arrested  him, 
and  when  the  next  morning  he  was  paraded  at  the 
Central  Office  looking-over,  the  speech  made  upon 
him  by  Commissioner  Flynn  set  a  resentful  pulse 
to  beating  in  his  swarthy  cheek. 

Not  that  Spanish  had  been  arrested  for  the  baby's 
lost  fingers.  That  story  in  the  telling  came  later, 
although  the  wrong  it  registered  had  happened 
months  before.  Dribben  and  Blum  picked  him  up — 
as  a  piece  of  work  it  did  them  credit — for  what 
occurred  in  Mersher  Miller's  place. 

As  all  the  world  knows,  Mersher  Miller,  or  as  he 
is  called  among  his  intimates,  Mersher  the  Strong- 
Arm,  conducts  a  beer  house  at  171  Norfolk  Street. 
• 

It  was  a  placid  April  evening,  and  Mersher's  brother, 
as  bottle-tosser,  was  busy  behind  the  bar.  Mersher 
himself  was  not  in,  which — for  Mersher — may  or 
may  not  have  been  greatly  to  the  good. 

Spanish  came  into  the  place.  His  hat  was  low- 
drawn  over  his  black  eyes.  Mersher's  brother,  wip 
ing  glasses,  didn't  know  him. 

"Where's  Mersher?"  asked  Spanish. 
27 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"Not  here,"  quoth  Mersher's  brother. 

"You'll  do,"  returned  Spanish.  "Give  me  ten 
dollars  out  of  the  damper." 

Mersher's  brother  held  this  proposal  in  finance 
to  be  foolishly  impossible,  and  was  explicit  on  that 
head.  He  insisted,  not  without  scorn,  that  he  was 
the  last  man  in  the  world  to  give  a  casual  caller 
ten  dollars  out  of  the  damper  or  anything  else. 

"I'll  be  back,"  replied  Spanish,  "an5  I  bet  then 
you'll  give  me  that  ten-spot." 

"That's  Johnny  Spanish,"  declared  a  bystander, 
when  Spanish,  muttering  his  discontent,  had  gone 
his  threatening  way. 

Mersher's  brother  doubted  it.  He  had  heard  of 
Spanish,  but  had  never  seen  him.  It  was  his  under 
standing  that  Spanish  was  not  in  town  at  all,  having 
lammistered  some  time  before. 

"He's  wanted  be  th'  cops,"  Mersher's  brother 
argued.  "You  don't  suppose  he's  sucker  enough  to 
walk  into  their  mitts?  He  wouldn't  dare  show  up 
in  town." 

"Don't  con  yourself,"  replied  the  bystander,  who 
had  a  working  knowledge  of  Gangland  and  its  nota 
bles.  "That's  Spanish,  all  right.  He  was  out  of 
town,  but  not  because  of  the  bulls.  It's  the  Dropper 
he's  leary  of;  an'  now  th'  Dropper's  in  hock  he's 
chased  back.  You  heard  what  he  said  about  comin' 
'round  ag'in  ?  Take  my  tip  an'  rib  yourself  up  wit' 
a  rod.  That  Spanish  is  a  tough  kid !" 

28 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

The  evening  wore  on  at  Mersher's ;  one  hour,  two 
hours,  three  went  peaceably  by.  The  clock  pointed 
to  eleven. 

Without  warning  a  lowering  figure  appeared  at 
the  door. 

"There  he  is!"  exclaimed  the  learned  bystander. 
Then  he  added  with  a  note  of  pride,  albeit  shaky 
as  to  voice:  "What  did  I  tell  youse?" 

The  figure  in  the  doorway  strode  forward.  It 
was  Spanish.  A  second  figure — hat  over  eyes — - 
followed  hard  on  his  heels.  With  a  flourish,  possi 
ble  only  to  the  close  student  of  Mr.  Beadle's  dime 
literature,  Spanish  drew  two  Colt's  pistols. 

"Come  through  wit'  that  ten!"  said  he  to  Mer 
sher's  brother. 

Mersher's  brother  came  through,  and  came 
through  swiftly. 

"I  thought  so !"  sneered  Spanish,  showing  his  side 
teeth  like  a  dog  whose  feelings  have  been  hurt. 
"Now  come  through  wit'  th'  rest!" 

Mersher's  brother  eagerly  gave  him  the  contents 
of  the  cash  drawer — about  eighty  dollars. 

Spanish,  having  pocketed  the  money,  wheeled 
upon  the  little  knot  of  customers,  who,  after  the 
New  York  manner  when  crime  is  afoot,  had  stood 
motionless  with  no  thought  of  interfering. 

"Hands  up!  Faces  to  the  wall!"  cried  Spanish. 
"Everybody's  dough  looks  good  to  me  to-night!" 

The   customers,    acting   in   such  concert    diat   it 
29 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

seemed  as  though  they'd  been  rehearsed,  hands  held 
high,  turned  their  faces  to  the  wall. 

"You  keep  them  covered,"  said  Spanish  to  his 
dark  companion  in  arms,  "while  I  go  through  'em." 

The  dark  companion  leveled  his  own  pistol  in  a 
way  calculated  to  do  the  most  harm,  and  Spanish 
reaped  an  assortment  of  cheap  watches  and  a  hand 
ful  of  bills. 

Spanish  came  round  on  Mersher's  brother.  The 
latter  had  stooped  down  until  his  eyes  were  on  a  par 
with  the  bar. 

"Now,"  said  Spanish  to  Mersher's  brother,  "I 
might  as  well  cook  you.  I've  no  use  for  barkeeps, 
anyway,  an'  besides  you're  built  like  a  pig  an'  I 
don't  like  your  looks!" 

Spanish  began  to  shoot,  and  Mersher's  brother 
began  to  dodge.  Ducking  and  dodging,  the  latter 
ran  the  length  of  the  bar,  Spanish  faithfully  follow 
ing  with  his  bullets.  There  were  two  in  the  ice 
box,  two  through  the  mirror,  five  in  the  top  of  the 
bar.  Each  and  all,  they  had  been  too  late  for  Mer 
sher's  brother,  who,  pale  as  a  candle,  emerged  from 
the  bombardment  breathing  heavily  but  untouched. 

"An'  this,"  cried  Ikey  the  pawnbroker,  ten  min 
utes  after  Spanish  had  disappeared — Ikey  was  out  a 
red  watch  and  sixty  dollars — "an'  this  iss  vat 
Mayor  Gaynor  calls  'outvard  order  an'  decency' !" 

It  was  upon  the  identification  of  the  learned  by 
stander  that  Dribben  and  Blum  went  to  work,  and 

30 


THE   'APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

it  was  for  that  stick-up  in  Mersher's  the  two  made 
the  collar. 

"It's  lucky  for  you  guys,"  said  Spanish,  his  eye 
sparkling  venomously  like  the  eye  of  a  snake — 
"it's  lucky  for  you  guys  that  you  got  me  wit'out  me 
guns.  I'd  have  croaked  one  of  you  bulls  sure,  an' 
maybe  both,  an'  then  took  th'  Dutch  way  out  me- 
self." 

The  Dutch  way  out,  with  Spanish  and  his  imme 
diate  circle,  means  suicide,  it  being  a  belief  among 
them  that  the  Dutch  are  a  melancholy  brood,  and 
favor  suicide  as  a  means  of  relief  when  the  burdens 
of  life  become  more  than  they  can  bear. 

Spanish,  however,  did  not  have  his  gun  when  he 
was  pinched,  and  therefore  did  not  croak  Dribben 
and  Blum,  and  do  the  Dutch  act  for  himself.  Drib 
ben  and  Blum  are  about  their  daily  duties  as  thief 
takers,  as  this  is  read,  while  Spanish  is  considering 
nature  from  between  the  Sing  Sing  bars.  Dribben 
and  Blum  say  that,  even  if  Spanish  had  had  his  guns, 
he  would  neither  have  croaked  them  nor  come  near 
it,  and  in  what  bluffs  he  put  up  to  that  lethal  effect 
he  was  talking  through  his  hat.  For  myself,  I  say 
nothing,  neither  one  way  nor  the  other,  except  that 
Dribben  and  Blum  are  bold  and  enterprising  officers, 
and  Spanish  is  the  very  heart  of  quenchless  despera 
tion. 

By  word  of  my  Central  Office  informant,  Span 
ish  has  seen  twenty-two  years  and  wasted  most  of 

31 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

them.  His  people  dwell  somewhere  in  the  wilds  of 
Long  Island,  and  are  as  respectable  as  folk  can  be 
on  two  dollars  a  day.  Spanish  did  not  live  with  his 
people,  preferring  the  city,  where  he  cut  a  figure  in 
Suffolk,  Norfolk,  Forsyth,  Hester,  Grand,  and 
other  East  Side  avenues. 

At  one  time  Spanish  had  a  gallery  number,  and 
his  picture  held  an  important  place  in  Central  Office 
regard.  It  was  taken  out  during  what  years  the  in 
adequate  Bingham  prevailed  as  Commissioner  of 
Police.  A  row  arose  over  a  youth  named  Duffy, 
who  was  esteemed  by  an  eminent  Judge.  Duffy's  pic 
ture  was  in  the  gallery,  and  the  judge  demanded 
its  removal.  It  being  inconvenient  to  refuse  the 
judge,  young  Duffy's  picture  was  taken  out;  and 
since  to  make  fish  of  one  while  making  flesh  of 
others  might  have  invited  invidious  comment,  some 
hundreds  of  pictures — among  them  that  of  Spanish 
— were  removed  at  the  same  time. 

It  pleased  Spanish  vastly  when  his  mug  came  out 
of  the  gallery.  Not  that  its  presence  there  was  cal 
culated  to  hurt  his  standing;  not  but  what  it  was 
bound  to  go  back  as  a  certain  incident  of  his  method 
of  life.  Its  removal  was  a  wound  to  police  vanity; 
and,  hating  the  police,  he  found  joy  in  whatsoever 
served  to  wring  their  azure  withers. 

When,  according  to  the  rules  of  Bertillon,  Span 
ish  was  thumb-printed,  mugged  and  measured,  the 
police  described  him  on  their  books  as  Pickpocket 

32 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

and  Fagin.  The  police  affirmed  that  he  not  only 
worked  the  Broadway  rattlers  in  his  own  improper 
person,  but — paying  a  compliment  to  his  genius  for 
organization — that  he  had  drawn  about  himself  a 
group  of  children  and  taught  them  to  steal  for  his 
sinful  use.  It  is  no  more  than  truth  to  say,  how 
ever,  that  never  in  New  York  City  was  Spanish 
convicted  as  either  a  Fagin  or  a  pickpocket,  and  the 
police — as  he  charges — may  have  given  him  these 
titles  as  a  cover  for  their  ignorance,  which  some 
insist  is  of  as  deep  an  indigo  as  the  hue  of  their 
own  coats. 

Spanish  was  about  seventeen  when  he  began  mak 
ing  an  East  Side  stir.  He  did  not  yearn  to  be  re 
spectable.  He  had  borne  witness  to  the  hard  work 
ing  respectability  of  his  father  and  mother,  and 
remembered  nothing  as  having  come  from  it  more 
than  aching  muscles  and  empty  pockets.  Their 
clothes  were  poor,  their  house  was  poor,  their  table 
poor.  Why  should  he  fret  himself  with  ideals  of 
the  respectable? 

Work? 

It  didn't  pay. 

In  his  blood,  too,  flowed  malignant  cross-currents, 
which  swept  him  towards  idleness  and  all  manner  of 
violences. 

Nor  did  the  lesson  of  the  hour  train  him  in  self- 
restraint.  All  over  New  York  City,  in  Fifth  Ave 
nue,  at  the  Five  Points,  the  single  cry  was,  Get  the 

33 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Money !  The  rich  were  never  called  upon  to  explain 
their  prosperity.  The  poor  were  forever  being 
asked  to  give  some  legal  reason  for  their  poverty. 
Two  men  in  a  magistrate's  court  are  fined  ten  dol 
lars  each.  One  pays,  and  walks  free;  the  other 
doesn't,  and  goes  to  the  Island.  Spanish  sees,  and 
hears,  and  understands. 

"Ah!"  cries  he,  "that  boob  went  to  the  Island  not 
for  what  he  did  but  for  not  having  ten  bones!" 

And  the  lesson  of  that  thunderous  murmur — 
reaching  from  the  Battery  to  Kingsbridge — of  Get 
the  Money!  rushes  upon  him;  and  he  makes  up  his 
mind  to  heed  it.  Also,  there  are  uncounted  scores 
like  Spanish,  and  other  uncounted  scores  with  bet 
ter  coats  than  his,  who  are  hearing  and  seeing  and 
reasoning  the  same  way. 

Spanish  stood  but  five  feet  three,  and  his  place 
was  among  the  lightweights.  Such  as  the  Dropper, 
who  tilted  the  scales  at  180,  and  whose  name  of 
Dropper  had  been  conferred  upon  him  because 
every  time  he  hit  a  man  he  dropped  him — such  as 
Ike  the  Blood,  as  hard  and  heavy  as  the  Dropper 
and  whose  title  of  the  Blood  had  not  been  granted 
in  any  spirit  of  factitiousness — laughed  at  him. 
What  matter  that  his  heart  was  high,  his  courage 
proof?  Physically,  he  could  do  nothing  with  these 
dangerous  ones — as  big  as  dangerous!  And  so, 
ferociously  ready  to  even  things  up,  he  began  pack 
ing  a  rod. 

34 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

While  Spanish,  proceeding  as  best  he  might  by 
his  dim  standards,  was  struggling  for  gang  emi 
nence  and  dollars,  Alma,  round,  dark,  vivacious, 
eyes  as  deep  and  soft  and  black  as  velvet,  was  the 
unchallenged  belle  of  her  Williamsburg  set.  Days 
she  worked  as  a  dressmaker,  without  getting  rich. 
Nights  she  went  to  rackets,  which  are  dances  wide 
open  and  unfenced.  Sundays  she  took  in  picnics, 
or  rode  up  and  down  on  the  trolleys — those  tour 
ing  cars  of  the  poor. 

Spanish  met  Alma  and  worshipped  her,  for  so 
was  the  world  made.  Being  thus  in  love,  while  be 
fore  he,  Spanish,  had  only  needed  money,  now  he 
had  to  have  it.  For  love's  price  to  a  man  is  money, 
just  as  its  price  to  a  woman  is  tears. 

Casting  about  for  ways  and  means,  Spanish's 
money-hunting  eye  fell  upon  Jigger.  Jigger  owned 
a  stuss-house  in  Forsyth  Street,  between  Hester 
and  Grand.  Jigger  was  prosperous  beyond  the 
dreams  of  avarice.  Multitudes,  stabbing  stuss, 
thronged  his  temple  of  chance.  As  a  quick,  sure 
way  to  amass  riches,  Spanish  decided  to  become 
Jigger's  partner.  Between  them  they  would  divide 
the  harvest  of  Forsyth  Street  stuss. 

The  golden  beauty  of  the  thought  lit  up  the  dark 
face  of  Spanish  with  a  smile  that  was  like  a  splash 
of  vicious  sunshine.  Alma,  in  the  effulgence  of  her 
toilets,  should  overpower  all  rivalry!  At  rout  and 
racket,  he,  Spanish,  would  lead  the  hard  walk  with 

35 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

her,  and  she  should  shine  out  upon  Gangland  fash 
ion  like  a  fire  in  a  forest. 

His  soul  having  wallowed  itself  weary  in  these 
visions,  Spanish  sought  Jigger  as  a  step  towards 
making  the  visions  real.  Spanish  and  his  proposi 
tion  met  with  obstruction.  Jigger  couldn't  see  it, 
wouldn't  have  it. 

Spanish  was  neither  astonished  nor  dismayed.  He 
had  foreseen  the  Jiggerian  reluctance,  and  was  or 
ganized  to  break  it  down.  When  Jigger  declined 
his  proffered  partnership — in  which  he,  Jigger,  must 
furnish  the  capital  while  Spanish  contributed  only 
his  avarice — and  asked,  "Why  should  I  ?"  he,  Span 
ish,  was  ready  with  an  answer. 

"Why  should  you?"  and  Spanish  repeated  Jig 
ger's  question  so  that  his  reply  might  have  double 
force.  "Because,  if  you  don't,  I'll  bump  youse  off." 

Gangland  is  so  much  like  Missouri  that  you  must 
always  be  prepared  to  show  it.  Gangland  takes 
nothing  on  trust.  And,  if  you  try  to  run  a  bluff,  it 
calls  you.  Spanish  wore  a  low-browed,  sullen,  sour 
look.  But  he  had  killed  no  one,  owned  no  dread 
repute,  and  Jigger  was  used  to  sullen,  sour,  low 
browed  looks.  Thus,  when  Spanish  spoke  of  bump 
ing  Jigger  off,  that  courtier  of  fortune,  full  of  a 
case-hardened  scepticism,  laughed  low  and  long  and 
mockingly.  He  told  the  death-threatening  Spanish 
to  come  a-running. 

Spanish  didn't  come  a-running,  but  he  came  much 
36 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

nearer  it  than  Jigger  liked.  Crossing  up  with  the 
perverse  Jigger  the  next  evening,  at  the  corner  of 
Forsyth  and  Grand,  he  opened  upon  that  obstinate 
stuss  dealer  with  a  Colt's-38.  Jigger  managed  to 
escape,  but  little  Sadie  Rotin,  cetat  eight,  was  killed. 
Jigger,  who  was  unarmed,  could  not  return  the  fire. 
Spanish,  confused  and  flurried,  doubtless,  by  the 
poor  result  of  his  gun-play,  betook  himself  to  flight. 

The  police  did  not  get  Spanish;  but  in  Gangland 
the  incident  did  him  little  good.  At  the  Ajax  Club, 
and  in  other  places  where  the  best  blood  of  the  gangs 
was  wont  to  unbuckle  and  give  opinions,  such  senti 
ment-makers  as  the  Dropper,  Ike  the  Blood,  Kid 
Kleiney,  Little  Beno,  Fritzie  Rice,  Kid  Strauss,  the 
Humble  Dutchman,  Zamo,  and  the  Irish  Wop,  held 
but  one  view.  Such  slovenly  work  was  without  pre 
cedent  as  without  apology.  To  miss  Jigger  aroused 
ridicule.  But  to  go  farther,  and  kill  a  child  playing 
in  the  street,  spelled  bald  disgrace.  Thereafter  no 
self-respecting  lady  would  drink  with  Spanish,  no 
gentleman  of  gang  position  would  return  his  nod. 
He  would  be  given  the  frozen  face  at  the  rackets, 
the  icy  eye  in  the  streets. 

To  be  sure,  his  few  friends,  contending  feebly,  in 
sisted  that  it  wasn't  Spanish  who  had  killed  the  little 
Rotin  girl.  When  Spanish  cracked  off  his  rod  at 
Jigger,  others  had  caught  the  spirit.  A  half  dozen 
guns — they  said — had  been  set  blazing;  and  it  was 
some  unknown  practitioner  who  had  shot  down  the 

37 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

little  Rotin  girl.  What  were  the  heart-feelings  of 
father  and  mother  Rotin,  to  see  their  baby  killed, 
did  not  appeal  as  a  question  to  either  the  friends  or 
foes  of  Spanish.  Gangland  is  interested  only  in  dol 
lars  or  war. 

That  contention  of  his  friends  did  not  restore 
Spanish  in  the  general  estimation.  All  must  con 
fess  that  at  least  he  had  missed  Jigger.  And  Jigger 
without  a  rod !  It  crowded  hard  upon  the  unbeliev 
able,  and  could  be  accounted  for  only  upon  the  as 
sumption  that  Spanish  was  rattled,  which  is  worse 
than  being  scared.  Mere  fear  might  mean  no  more 
than  an  excess  of  prudence.  To  get  rattled,  every 
where  and  under  all  conditions,  is  the  mean  sure 
mark  of  weakness. 

While  discussion,  like  a  pendulum,  went  swing 
ing  to  and  fro,  Spanish — possibly  a-smart  from  what 
biting  things  were  being  said  in  his  disfavor — came 
to  town,  and  grievously  albeit  casually  shot  an  un 
known.  Following  which  feat  he  again  disappeared. 
None  knew  where  he  had  gone.  His  whereabouts 
was  as  much  a  mystery  as  the  identity  of  the  un 
known  whom  he  had  shot,  or  the  reason  he  had  shot 
him.  These  two  latter  questions  are  still  borne  as 
puzzles  upon  the  ridge  of  gang  conjecture. 

That  this  time  he  had  hit  his  man,  however,  lifted 
Spanish  somewhat  from  out  those  lower  reputa- 
tional  depths  into  which  missing  Jigger  had  cast 

38 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

him.  The  unknown,  to  be  sure,  did  not  die;  the 
hospital  books  showed  that.  But  he  had  stopped  a 
bullet.  Which  last  proved  that  Spanish  wasn't  al 
ways  rattled  when  he  pulled  a  gun.  The  incident, 
all  things  considered,  became  a  trellis  upon  which 
the  reputation  of  Spanish,  before  so  prone  and  hope 
less,  began  a  little  to  climb. 

The  strenuous  life  doesn't  always  blossom  and 
bear  good  fruit.  Balked  in  his  intended  partnership 
with  Jigger,  and  subsequently  missing  Jigger — to 
say  nothing  of  the  business  of  the  little  Rotin  girl, 
dead  and  down  under  the  grass  roots — Spanish  not 
only  failed  to  Get  the  Money !  but  succeeded  in  driv 
ing  himself  out  of  town.  Many  and  vain  were  the 
gang  guesses  concerning  him.  Some  said  he  was  in 
Detroit,  giving  professional  aid  to  a  gifted  booster. 
The  latter  was  of  the  feminine  gender,  and,  aside 
from  her  admitted  genius  for  shoplifting,  was  ac 
claimed  the  quickest  hand  with  a  hanger — by  which 
you  are  to  understand  that  outside  pendant  purse 
wherewith  women  equip  themselves  as  they  go  forth 
to  shop — of  all  the  gon-molls  between  the  two 
oceans.  Others  insisted  that  Spanish  was  in  Balti 
more,  and  had  joined  out  with  a  mob  of  poke-get 
ters.  The  great,  the  disastrous  thing,  however — and 
to  this  all  Gangland  agreed — was  that  he  had  so 
bungled  his  destinies  as  to  put  himself  out  of  New 
York. 

39 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"Detroit!  Baltimore!"  exclaimed  the  Dropper. 
"Wy,  it's  woise'n  bein'  in  stir!  A  guy  might  as 
well  be  doin'  time  as  live  in  them  burgs !" 

The  Dropper,  in  his  iron-fisted  way,  was  sincere 
in  what  he  said.  Later,  he  himself  was  given  eight 
een  spaces  in  Sing  Sing,  which  exile  he  might  have 
missed  had  he  fled  New  York  in  time.  But  he 
couldn't,  and  didn't.  And  so  the  Central  Office  got 
him,  the  District  Attorney  prosecuted  him,  the  jury 
convicted  him,  and  the  judge  sentenced  him  to  that 
long  captivity.  Living  in  New  York  is  not  a  pref 
erence,  but  an  appetite — like  drinking  whiskey — and 
the  Dropper  had  acquired  the  habit. 

What  was  the  Dropper  settled  for? 

Robbery. 

It's  too  long  to  tell  here,  however,  besides  being 
another  story.  Some  other  day  I  may  give  it  to 
you. 

Spanish,  having  abandoned  New  York,  could  no 
longer  bear  Alma  loving  company  at  picnic,  rout 
and  racket.  What  was  Alma  to  do  ?  She  lived  for 
routs,  reveled  in  rackets,  joyed  in  picnics.  Must 
these  delights  be  swept  away?  She  couldn't  go 
alone — it  was  too  expensive.  Besides,  it  would 
evince  a  lack  of  class. 

Alma,  as  proud  and  as  wedded  to  her  social  posi 
tion  as  any  silken  member  of  the  Purple  and  Fine 
Linen  Gang  that  ever  rolled  down  Fifth  Avenue  in 
her  brougham,  revolved  these  matters  upon  her 

40 


THE    APACHES    OF    NtiW    YORK 

wheel  of  thought.  Also,  she  came  to  conclusions. 
She,  an  admitted  belle,  could  not  consent  to  social 
obliteration.  Spanish  had  fled;  she  worshipped  his 
black  eyes,  his  high  courage;  she  would  keep  a 
heart-corner  vacant  for  him  in  case  he  came  back. 
Pending  his  return,  however,  she  would  go  into  so 
ciety;  and,  for  those  reasons  of  expense  and  class 
and  form,  she  would  not  go  alone. 

Alma  submitted  her  position  to  a  beribboned  jury 
of  her  peers.  Their  judgment  ran  abreast  of  her 
own. 

"A  goil  would  be  a  mutt,"  they  said,  "to  stay 
cocked  up  at  home.  An'  yet  a  goil  couldn't  go  chas- 
in'  around  be  her  lonesome.  Alma" — this  was  their 
final  word — "you  must  cop  off  another  steady." 

"But  what  would  Johnny  say?"  asked  Alma;  for 
she  couldn't  keep  her  thoughts  off  Spanish,  of  whom 
she  stood  a  little  bit  in  fear. 

"Johnny's  beat  it,  ain't  he?"  returned  the  ad 
visory  jury  of  friends.  "There  ain't  no  kick  comin' 
to  a  guy  what's  beat  it.  He  ain't  no  longer  in  th' 
picture." 

Alma,  thus  free  to  pick  and  choose  by  virtue  of 
the  absence  of  Spanish,  picked  the  Dropper.  The 
latter  chieftain  was  flattered.  Taking  Alma  proudly 
yet  tenderly  under  his  mighty  arm,  he  led  her  to  sup 
pers  such  as  she  had  never  eaten,  bought  her  drinks 
such  as  she  had  never  tasted,  revolved  with  her  at 
rackets  where  tickets  were  a  dollar  a  throw,  the  or- 

41 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

chestra  seven  pieces,  and  the  floor  shone  like  glass. 
It  was  a  cut  or  two  above  anything  that  Spanish 
had  given  her,  and  Alma,  who  thought  it  going 
some,  failed  not  to  say  so. 

Alma  was  proud  of  the  Dropper;  the  Dropper 
was  proud  of  her.  She  told  her  friends  of  the 
money  he  spent ;  and  the  friends  warmed  the  cockles 
of  her  little  heart  by  shrilly  exclaiming  at  pleasant 
intervals : 

"Ain't  he  th'  swell  guy !" 

"Betcher  boots  he's  th'  swell  guy,"  Alma  would 
rejoin ;  "an'  he's  got  money  to  boin  a  wet  dog !  Th' 
only  t'ing  that  worries  me,"  Alma  would  conclude, 
"is  Johnny.  S'ppose  he  blows  in  some  day,  an'  lays 
for  th'  Dropper?' 

"Th'  Dropper  could  do  him  wit'  a  wallop,"  the 
friends  would  consolingly  return.  "He'd  swing 
onct;  an'  after  that  there  wouldn't  be  no  Johnny 
Spanish." 

The  Round  Back  Rangers — it  was,  I  think,  the 
Round  Backs — gave  an  outdoor  racket  somewhere 
near  Maspeth.  The  Dropper  took  Alma.  Both 
were  in  high,  exultant  feather.  They  danced,  they 
drank,  they  rode  the  wooden  horses.  No  more  gal 
lant  couple  graced  the  grounds. 

Cheese  sandwiches,  pig's  knuckles  and  beer 
brought  them  delicately  to  the  banquet  board.  They 
were  among  their  friends.  The  talk  was  alvvayr  in 
teresting,  sometimes  educational. 

42 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Ike  the  Blood  complained  that  certain  annoying- 
purists  were  preaching  a  crusade  against  the  Raines 
Law  Hotels.  Slimmy,  celebrated  not  only  for  his 
slimness,  but  his  erudition,  declared  that  crusades 
had  been  the  common  curse  of  every  age. 

"Wat  do  youse  know  about  it?"  sourly  pro 
pounded  the  Humble  Dutchman,  who  envied  Slim 
my  his  book-fed  wisdom. 

"Wat  do  I  know  about  it?"  came  heatedly  from 
Slimmy.  "Do  youse  think  I  ain't  got  no  education  ? 
Th'  last  time  I'm  in  stir,  that  time  I  goes  up  for  four 
years,  I  reads  all  th'  books  in  th'  prison  library. 
Ask  th'  warden  if  I  don't.  As  to  them  crusades,  it's 
as  I  tells  you.  There's  always  been  crusades ;  it's 
th'  way  humanity's  gaited.  Every  sport,  even  if  he 
don't  go  'round  blowin'  about  it,  has  got  it  tucked 
somewhere  away  in  his  make-up  that  he,  himself, 
is  th'  real  thing.  Every  dub  who's  different  from 
him  he  riggers  is  worse'n  him.  In  two  moves  he's 
out  crusadin'.  In  th'  old  days  it's  religion;  th' 
Paynims  was  th'  fall  guys.  Now  it's  rum,  or  racin', 
or  Raines  Hotels,  or  some  such  stall.  Once  let  a 
community  get  the  crusade  bug,  an'  something's  got 
to  go.  There's  a  village  over  in  Joisey,  an,'  there 
bein'  no  grog  shops  an'  no  vice  mills  to  get  busy 
wit',  they  ups  an'  bounces  an  old  geezer  out  of  th' 
only  church  in  town  for  pitchin'  horse-shoes." 

Slimmy  called  for  more  beer,  with  a  virtuously 
superior  air. 

43 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"But  about  them  Paynims,  Slimmy?"  urged 
Alma. 

"It's  hundreds  of  years  ago,"  Slimmy  resumed. 
"Th'  Paynims  hung  out  in  Palestine.  Bein'  they're 
Paynims,  the  Christians  is  naturally  sore  on  'em; 
an'  so,  when  they  feels  like  huntin'  trouble,  th'  cru 
sade  spirit'd  flare  up.  Richard  over  in  England 
would  pass  th'  woid  to  Philip  in  France,  an'  th' 
other  lads  wit'  crowns. 

'  'How  about  it  ?'  he'd  say.  'Cast  your  regal 
peepers  toward  Palestine.  D'you  make  them  Pay 
nims?  Ain't  they  th'  tough  lot?  They  won't  eat 
pork ;  they  toe  in  when  they  walk ;  they  don't  drink 
nothin'  worse'n  coffee;  they've  got  brown  skins. 
Also,'  says  he,  'we  can  lick  'em  for  money,  marbles 
or  chalk.  Wat  d'youse  say,  me  royal  brothers? 
Let's  get  our  gangs,  an'  hand  them  Paynims  a  swift 
soak  in  behalf  of  the  troo  faith.' 

"Philip  an'  the  other  crowned  lads  at  this  would 
agree  wit'  Richard.  'Them  Paynims  is  certainly  th' 
worst  ever!'  they'd  say;  an'  one  woid'd  borry  an 
other,  until  the  crusade  is  on.  Some  afternoon 
you'd  hear  the  newsies  in  th'  streets  yellin',  'Wux- 
try!'  an'  there  it'd  be  in  big  black  type,  'Richard, 
Philip  an'  their  gallant  bands  of  Strong- Arms  have 
landed  in  Palestine.'  ' 

"An'  then  w'at,  Slimmy?"  cooed  Alma,  who  hung 
on  every  word. 

"As  far  as  I  can  see,  th'  Christians  always  had  it 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

on  th'  Paynims,  always  had  'em  shaded,  when  it 
comes  to  a  scrap.  Th'  Christian  lads  had  th'  punch ; 
an'  th'  Paynims  must  have  been  wise  to  it;  for  no 
sooner  would  Richard,  Philip  an'  their  roly-boly 
boys  hit  th'  dock,  than  th'  Paynims  would  take  it  on 
th'  run  for  th'  hills.  Their  mullahs  would  try  to 
rally  'em,  be  tellin'  'em  that  whoever  got  downed 
fightin'  Christians,  the  prophet  would  punch  his 
ticket  through  for  paradise  direct,  an'  no  stop-overs. 

"  'That's  all  right  about  the  prophet!'  they'd  say, 
givin'  th'  mullahs  th'  laugh.  An'  then  they'd  beat  it 
for  th'  next  ridge." 

"Them  Paynims  must  have  been  a  bunch  of  dead 
ones,"  commented  the  Dropper. 

"Not  bein'  able  to  get  on  a  match,"  continued 
Slimmy,  without  heeding  the  Dropper,  "th'  Pay 
nims  declinin'  their  game,  th'  Christian  hosts  would 
rough  house  th'  country  generally,  an'  in  a  way  of 
speakin'  stand  th'  Holy  Land  on  its  head.  Do  what 
they  would,  however,  they  couldn't  coax  th'  Pay 
nims  into  th'  ring  wit'  'em ;  an'  so  after  a  while  they 
decides  that  Palestine's  th'  bummest  place  they'd 
ever  struck.  Mebby,  too,  they'd  begin  havin'  woid 
from  home  that  their  wives  was  gettin'  a  little  gay, 
or  their  kids  was  goin'  round  marryin'  th'  kids  of 
their  enemies,  an'  that  one  way  an'  another  their  do 
mestic  affairs  was  on  th'  fritz.  At  this,  Richard'd 
go  loafin'  over  to  Philip's  tent,  an'  say: 

"  Thilly,  me  boy,  I  don't  know  how  this  crusade 
45 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

strikes  youse,  but  if  I'm  any  judge  of  these  great 
moral  movements,  it's  on  th'  blink.  An'  so/  he'd  go 
on,  'Philly,  it's  me  for  Merrie  England  be  th'  night 
boat.' 

"Wit'  that,  they'd  break  for  home ;  an',  when  they 
got  there,  they'd  mebby  hand  out  a  taste  of  th' 
strap  to  mamma  an'  th'  babies,  just  to  teach  'em  not 
to  go  runnin'  out  of  form  th'  next  time  father's  far 
away." 

"Youse  don't  bank  much  on  crusades,  Slimmy?" 
Ike  the  Blood  said. 

The  Blood  had  more  than  a  passing  interest  in 
the  movement,  mention  of  which  had  started  the  dis 
cussion,  being  himself  a  part  proprietor  in  one  of 
those  threatened  Raines  Law  Hotels. 

"Blood,"  observed  Slimmy,  oracularly,  "them 
moral  movements  is  like  a  hornet;  they  stings  onct 
an'  then  they  dies." 

Alma's  attention  was  drawn  to  Mollie  Squint — 
so  called  because  of  an  optical  slant  which  gave  her 
a  vague  though  piquant  look.  Mollie  Squint  was 
motioning  from  the  outskirts  of  the  little  group. 
Alma  pointed  to  the  Dropper.  Should  she  bring 
him?  Mollie  Squint  shook  her  head. 

Leaving  the  Dropper,  Alma  joined  Mollie  Squint. 

"It's  Johnny,"  gasped  Mollie  Squint.  "He  wants 
you;  he's  over  be  that  bunch  of  trees." 

Alma  hung  back ;  some  impression  of  peril  seized 
her. 

46 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"Better  go,"  whispered  Mollie  Squint.  "He's 
onto  you  an'  the  Dropper,  an'  if  you  don't  go  he'll 
come  lookin'  for  you.  Then  him  an'  the  Dropper'll 
go  to  th'  mat  wit'  each  other,  an'  have  it  awful. 
Give  Johnny  one  of  your  soft  talks,  an'  mebby  youse 
can  smooth  him  clown.  Stall  him  off  be  tellin'  him 
you'll  see  him  to-night  at  Ding  Dong's." 

Mollie  Squint's  advice  seemed  good,  and  as  the 
lesser  of  two  evils  Alma  decided  to  go.  Mollie 
Squint  did  not  accompany  her. 

"Tell  th'  Dropper  I'll  be  back  in  a  moment,"  said 
Alma  to  Mollie  Squint,  "an'  don't  wise  him  tip  about 
Johnny." 

Alma  met  Spanish  at  the  far  corner  of  the  clump 
of  trees.  There  was  no  talk,  no  time  for  talk.  They 
were  all  alone.  As  she  drew  near,  he  pulled  a  pistol 
and  shot  her  through  and  through  the  body. 

Alma's  moaning  cry  was  heard  by  the  Dropper — 
that,  and  the  sound  of  the  shot.  When  the  Drop 
per  reached  her,  she  was  lying  senseless  in  the 
shadow  of  the  trees — a  patch  of  white  and  red 
against  the  green  of  the  grass.  Spanish  was 
nowhere  in  sight. 

Alma  was  carried  to  the  hospital,  and  revived. 
But  she  would  say  nothing,  give  no  names — staunch 
to  the  spirit  of  the  Gangs.  Only  she  whispered 
feebly  to  Mollie  Squint,  when  the  Dropper  had  been 
sent  away  by  the  doctors : 

"Johnny  must  have  loved  me  a  lot  to  shoot  me 

47 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

up  like  he  did.     A  guy  has  got  to  love  a  goil  good 
and  plenty  before  he'll  try  to  cook  her." 

"Did  yotise  tell  th'  hospital  croakers  his  name?" 
asked  Mollie  Squint. 

"Of  course  not !  I  never  squealed  to  nobody.  Do 
youse  think  I'd  put  poor  Johnny  in  wrong?" 

"Then  I  won't,"  said  Mollie  Squint. 

An  attendant  told  Mollie  Squint  that  she  must 
go ;  certain  surgeons  had  begun  to  assemble.  Mollie 
Squint,  tears  falling,  kissed  Alma  good-by. 

"Give  Johnny  all  me  love,"  whispered  Alma. 
"Tell  him  I'm  no  snitch;  I'll  stick." 

The  Dropper  did  not  have  to  be  told  whose  bullet 
had  struck  down  his  star,  his  Alma.  That  night, 
Kid  Kleiney  with  him,  he  went  looking  for  Span 
ish.  The  latter,  as  jealous  as  Satan,  was  looking 
for  the  Dropper.  Of  the  two,  Spanish  must  have 
conducted  his  hunting  with  the  greater  circumspec 
tion  or  the  greater  luck;  for  about  eleven  of  the 
clock  he  crept  up  behind  the  Dropper,  as  the  latter 
and  Kid  Kleiney  were  walking  in  East  Broadway, 
and  planted  a  bullet  in  his  neck.  Kid  Kleiney  'bout 
faced  at  the  crack  of  the  pistol,  and  was  in  fortunate 
time  to  stop  Spanish's  second  bullet  with  one  of  the 
big  buttons  on  his  coat.  Kid  Kleiney  fell  by  the 
side  of  the  wounded  Dropper,  jarred  off  his  feet 
by  the  shock.  He  was  able,  however,  when  the 
police  came  up,  to  help  place  the  Dropper  in  an  am 
bulance. 

48 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

Spanish  ? 

Vanished — as  usual. 

The  police  could  get  no  line  on  him,  did  get  no 
line  on  him,  until  months  later,  when,  as  related — 
the  Dropper  having  been  lagged  for  robbery,  and 
safely  caged — he  came  back  to  stick  up  the  joint 
of  Mersher  the  Strong- Arm,  and  be  arrested  by 
Dribben  and  Blum. 

The  baby  and  I  met  casually  in  a  Williamsburg 
street,  where  Alma  had  brought  it  to  take  the  air, 
which  was  bad.  Alma  was  thin-faced,  hollow-eyed, 
but  I  could  see  that  she  had  been  pretty.  She  said 
she  was  twenty  and  the  baby  less  than  a  year,  and 
I  think  she  told  the  truth. 

No  one  among  Alma's  friends  finds  fault  with 
either  the  baby  or  herself,  although  both  are  with 
out  defence  by  the  canons  of  high  morality.  There 
is  warmth  in  the  world;  and,  after  all,  the  case  of 
Alma  and  the  baby  is  not  so  much  beyond  the  com 
mon,  except  as  to  the  baby's  advent,  which  was 
dramatic  and  after  the  manner  of  Caesar. 

Folk  say  the  affair  reflects  illustriously  upon  the 
hospital.  Also,  what  surgeons  officiated  are  in 
clined  to  plume  themselves;  for  have  not  Alma  and 
the  baby  lived  ?  I  confess  that  those  boastful  scien 
tists  are  not  wanting  in  excuse  for  strutting,  al 
though  they  ought,  perhaps,  in  honor,  to  divide 
credit  with  Alma  and  the  baby  as  being  hard  to  kill. 

It  is  not  an  ugly  baby  as  babies  go.  Not  that  I 
49 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

pretend  to  be  a  judge.  As  I  paused  by  its  battered 
perambulator,  it  held  up  a  rose-leaf  hand,  as  though 
inviting  me  to  look ;  and  I  looked.  The  little  claw 
possessed  but  three  talons ;  the  first  two  fingers  had 
been  shot  away.  When  I  asked  how,  Alma  lowered 
her  head  sadly,  saying  nothing.  It  would  have  been 
foolish  to  ask  the  baby.  It  couldn't  talk.  More 
over,  since  the  fingers  were  shot  away  before  it  was 
born,  it  could  possess  no  clear  memory  as  to  details. 
It  is  a  healthy  baby.  Alma  loves  it  dearly,  and 
can  be  depended  upon  to  give  it  every  care.  That 
is,  she  can  be  if  she  lives ;  and  on  that  head  her  worn 
thinness  alarms  her  friends,  who  wish  she  were  fat 
ter.  Some  say  her  thinness  is  the  work  of  the  bul 
let.  Others  believe  that  a  sorrow  is  sapping  her 
heart. 


50 


III. 

HOW  PIOGGI  WENT  TO  ELMIRA 

The  Bottler  was  round,  inoffensive,  well-dressed, 
affable.  He  was  also  generous,  as  the  East  Side 
employs  the  term.  Any  one  could  touch  him  for  a 
quarter  upon  a  plea  of  beef  stew,  and  if  plaintively 
a  bed  were  mentioned,  for  as  much  as  fifty  cents. 
For  the  Bottler  was  a  money-maker,  and  had  Suf 
folk  Street  position  as  among  its  richest  capitalists. 

What  bridge  whist  is  to  Fifth  Avenue  so  is  stuss 
to  the  East  Side.  No  one  save  the  dealer  wins  at 
stuss,  and  yet  the  device  possesses  an  alluring  fea 
ture.  When  the  victim  gets  up  from  the  table,  the 
bank  under  the  descriptive  of  viggresh  returns  him 
one-tenth  of  his  losings.  No  one  ever  leaves  a  stuss 
game  broke,  and  that  final  ray  of  sure  sunshine 
forms  indubitably  the  strong  attraction.  Stuss  licks 
up  as  with  a  tongue  of  fire  a  round  full  fifth  of  all 
the  East  Side  earns,  and  to  viggresh  should  be  given 
the  black  glory  thereof. 

The  Bottler  owned  talents  to  make  money.  Mor 
ally  careless,  liking  the  easy  way,  with,  over  all,  that 
bent  for  speculation  which  sets  some  folk  to  dealing 
in  stocks  and  others  to  dealing  cards,  those  money- 

51 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

making  talents  found  expression  in  stuss.  Not  that 
the  Bottler  was  so  weak-minded  as  to  buck  the  game. 
Wise,  prudent,  solvent,  he  went  the  other  way  about 
it,  his  theater  of  operations  being  135  Suffolk.  Also, 
expanding  liberally,  the  Bottler  endowed  his  victims, 
as — stripped  of  their  last  dollar — they  shoved  back 
their  hopeless  chairs,  with  not  ten,  but  fifteen  per 
cent,  of  what  sums  they  had  changed  in.  This  ren 
dered  135  Suffolk  a  most  popular  resort,  and  the 
foolish  stood  four  deep  about  the  Bottler's  tables 
every  night  in  the  week. 

The  Bottler  lacked  utterly  the  war-heart,  and  was 
in  no  wise  a  fighter.  He  had  the  brawn,  but  not  the 
soul,  and  this  heart-sallowness  would  have  threat 
ened  his  standing  save  for  those  easy  generosities. 
Gangland  is  not  dull,  and  will  overlook  even  a  want 
of  courage  in  one  who,  for  bed  and  beef  stews, 
freely  places  his  purse  at  its  disposal. 

There  are  two  great  gangs  on  the  East  Side. 
These  are  the  Five  Points  and  the  Monk  Eastmans. 
There  are  smaller  gangs,  but  each  owes  allegiance  to 
either  the  one  or  the  other  of  the  two  great  gangs, 
and  fights  round  its  standard  in  event  of  general 
gang  war. 

There  is  danger  in  belonging  to  either  of  these 
gangs.  But  there  is  greater  danger  in  not.  I  speak 
of  folk  of  the  Bottler's  ways  and  walks.  The  Five 
Points  and  Eastmans  are  at  feud  with  one  another, 
and  the  fires  of  their  warfare  are  never  permitted 

52 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

to  die  out.  Membership  in  one  means  that  it  will 
buckler  you  against  the  other  while  you  live,  and 
avenge  you  should  you  fall.  Membership  in  neither 
means  that  you  will  be  raided  and  rough-housed 
and  robbed  by  both. 

The  Bottler's  stuss  house  was — like  every  other 
of  its  kind — a  Castle  Dangerous.  To  the  end  that 
the  peril  of  his  days  and  nights  be  reduced  to  mini 
mum,  he  united  himself  with  the  Five  Points.  True, 
he  could  not  be  counted  upon  as  a  shtocker  or 
strong-arm ;  but  he  had  money  and  would  part  with 
it,  and  gang  war  like  all  war  demands  treasure. 
Bonds  must  be  given ;  fines  paid ;  the  Bottler  would 
have  his  uses.  Wherefore  the  Five  Points  opened 
their  arms  and  their  hearts  to  receive  him. 

The  Eastmans  had  suffered  a  disorganizing  set 
back  when  the  chief,  who  gave  the  sept  its  name, 
went  up  the  river  for  ten  years.  On  the  heels  of  that 
sorrowful  retirement,  it  became  a  case  of  York  and 
Lancaster ;  two  claimants  for  the  throne  stood  forth. 
These  were  Ritchie  Fitzpatrick  and  Kid  Twist,  both 
valorous,  both  with  reputations  of  having  killed, 
both  with  clouds  of  followers  at  their  backs. 

Twist,  in  whom  abode  the  rudiments  of  a  savage 
diplomacy,  proposed  a  conference.  Fitzpatrick  at 
that  conference  was  shot  to  death,  and  Kid  Dahl,  a 
near  friend  of  Twist,  stood  for  the  collar.  Dahl 
was  thus  complacent  because  Fitzpatrick  had  not 
died  by  his  hand. 

53 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

The  police,  the  gangs  and  the  politicians  are  not 
without  a  sinister  wisdom.  When  life  has  been 
taken,  and  to  punish  the  slayer  would  be  an  incon 
venience,  some  one  who  didn't  do  the  killing  sub 
mits  to  arrest.  This  covers  the  retreat  of  the  guilty. 
Also,  the  public  is  appeased.  Later,  when  the  pub 
lic's  memory  sleeps,  the  arrested  one — for  lack  of 
evidence — is  set  at  liberty. 

When  Fitzpatrick  was  killed,  to  clear  the  path  to 
gang  leadership  before  the  aspiring  feet  of  Twist, 
the  police  took  Dahl,  who  all  but  volunteered  for  the 
sacrifice.  Dahl  went  smilingly  to  jail,  while  the  real 
murderer  of  Fitzpatrick  attended  that  dead  person 
age's  wake,  and  later  appeared  at  the  funeral.  This 
last,  however,  by  the  nicer  tastes  of  Gangland,  was 
complained  of  as  bordering  upon  vulgarity. 

Fitzpatrick  was  buried  with  a  lily  in  his  hand,  and 
Twist  was  hailed  chief  of  the  Eastmans.  Dahl  re' 
mained  in  the  Tombs  a  reasonable  number  of  weeks, 
and  then  resumed  his  position  in  society.  It  was  but 
natural,  and  to  the  glory  of  stumbling  human  na 
ture,  that  Dahl  should  dwell  warmly  in  the  grateful 
regard  of  Twist. 

Twist,  now  chief  of  the  Eastmans,  cast  about  to 
establish  Dahl.  There  was  the  Bottler,  with  his 
stuss  Golconda  in  Suffolk  Street.  Were  not  his  af 
filiations  with  the  Five  Points?  Was  he  not  there 
fore  the  enemy  ?  The  Bottler  was  an  Egyptian,  and 
Twist  resolved  to  spoil  him  in  the  interest  of  Dahl. 

54 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Twist,  with  Dahl,  waited  upon  the  Bottler.  Ar 
gument  was  short  and  to  the  point.  Said  Twist : 

"Bottler,  the  Kid" — indicating  the  expectant 
Dahl — "is  in  wit'  your  stuss  graft  from  now  on. 
It's  to  be  an  even  break." 

The  news  almost  checked  the  beating  of  the  Bot 
tler's  heart.  Not  that  he  was  astonished.  What 
the  puissant  Twist  proposed  was  a  commonest  step 
in  Gangland  commerce — Gangland,  where  the 
Scotch  proverb  of  "Take  what  you  may ;  keep  what 
you  can!"  retains  a  pristine  force.  For  all  that, 
the  Bottler  felt  dismay.  The  more  since  he  had 
hoped  that  his  hooking  up  with  the  Five  Points 
would  have  kept  him  against  such  rapine. 

Following  the  Twist  fulmination,  the  Bottler 
stood  wrapped  in  thought.  The  dangerous  chief  of 
the  Eastmans  lit  a  cigar  and  waited.  The  poor  Bot 
tler's  cogitations  ran  off  in  this  manner.  Twist  had 
killed  six  men.  Also,  he  had  spared  no  pains  in  car 
rying  out  those  homicides,  and  could  laugh  at  the 
law,  which  his  prudence  left  bankrupt  of  evidence. 
Dahl,  too,  possessed  a  past  as  red  as  Twist's.  Both 
could  be  relied  upon  to  kill.  To  refuse  Dahl  as  a 
partner  spelled  death.  To  acquiesce  called  for  half 
his  profits.  His  friends  of  the  Five  Points,  to  be  sure, 
could  come  at  his  call.  That,  however,  would  not 
save  his  game  and  might  not  save  his  life.  Twist's 
demand  showed  that  he  had  resolved,  so  far  as  he, 
the  Bottler,  was  concerned,  to  rule  or  ruin.  The 

55 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

latter  was  easy.  Any  dozen  of  the  Eastmans,  pick 
ing  some  unguarded  night,  could  fall  upon  his  estab 
lishment,  confiscate  his  bankroll,  and  pitch  both  him 
and  his  belongings  into  the  street.  The  Five  Points 
couldn't  be  forever  at  his  threatened  elbow.  They 
would  avenge  him,  certainly;  but  vengeance,  how 
ever  sweet,  comes  always  over-late,  and  possesses  be 
sides  no  value  in  dollars  and  cents.  Thus  reasoned 
the  Bottler,  while  Twist  frowningly  paused.  The 
finish  came  when,  with  a  sickly  smile,  the  Bottler 
bowed  to  the  inevitable  and  accepted  Dahl. 

All  Suffolk  Street,  to  say  nothing  of  the  thor 
oughfares  roundabout,  knew  what  had  taken  place. 
The  event  and  the  method  thereof  did  not  provoke 
the  shrugging  of  a  shoulder,  the  arching  of  a  brow. 
What  should  there  be  in  the  usual  to  invite  amaze 
ment  ? 

For  six  weeks  the  Bottler  and  Dahl  settled  up, 
fifty-and-fifty,  with  the  close  of  each  stuss  day. 
Then  came  a  fresh  surprise.  Dahl  presented  his 
friend,  the  Nailer,  to  the  Bottler  with  this  terse  re 
mark: 

"Bottler,  youse  can  beat  it.  The  Nailer  is  goin'  to 
be  me  partner  now.  Which  lets  you  out,  see?" 

The  Bottler  was  at  bay.  He  owned  no  stomach 
for  battle,  but  the  sentiment  of  desperation,  which 
the  announcement  of  Dahl  provoked,  drove  him  to 
make  a  stand.  To  lose  one-half  had  been  bad.  To 
lose  all — to  be  wholly  wiped  out  in  the  annals  of 

56 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Suffolk  Street  stuss — was  more  than  even  his  meek 
ness  might  bear.  No,  the  Bottler  did  not  dream  of 
going1  to  the  police.  That  would  have  been  to 
squeal;  and  even  his  friends  of  the  Five  Points  had 
only  faces  of  flint  for  such  tactics  of  disgrace. 

The  harassed  Bottler  barred  his  doors  against 
Dahl.  He  would  defend  his  castle,  and  get  word  to 
the  Five  Points.  The  Bottler's  doors  having  been 
barred,  Dahl  for  his  side  at  once  instituted  a  siege, 
despatching  the  Nailer,  meanwhile,  to  the  nearest 
knot  of  Eastmans  to  bring  reinforcements. 

At  this  crisis  O'Farrell  of  the  Central  Office 
strolled  into  the  equation.  He  himself  was  hunting 
a  loft-worker,  of  more  than  common  industry,  and 
had  no  thought  of  either  the  Bottler  or  Dahl.  Hap 
pening,  however,  upon  a  situation,  whereof  the  ele 
mental  features  were  Dahl  outside  with  a  gun  and 
the  Bottler  inside  with  a  gun,  he  so  far  recalled  his 
oath  of  office  as  to  interfere. 

"Better  an  egg  to-day  than  a  hen  to-morrow," 
philosophized  O'Farrell,  and  putting  aside  for  the 
moment  his  search  for  the  loft-worker,  he  devoted 
himself  to  the  Bottler  and  Dahl. 

With  the  sure  instinct  of  his  Mulberry  Street 
caste,  O'Farrell  opened  negotiations  with  Dahl.  He 
knew  the  latter  to  be  the  dangerous  angle,  and  began 
by  placing  the  muzzle,  of  his  own  pistol  against  that 
marauder's  back. 

57 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

"Make  a  move,"  said  he,  "and  I'll  shoot  you  in 
two." 

The  sophisticated  Dahl,  realizing  fate,  moved  not, 
and  with  that  the  painstaking  O'Farrell  collected  his 
armament. 

Next  the  Bottler  was  ordered  to  come  forth.  The 
Bottler  obeyed  in  a  sweat  and  a  tremble.  He  sur 
rendered  his  pistol  at  word  of  the  law,  and  O'Far 
rell  led  both  off  to  jail.  The  two  were  charged  with 
Disturbance. 

In  the  station  house,  and  on  the  way,  Dahl  ceased 
not  to  threaten  the  Bottler's  life. 

"This  pinch'll  cost  a  fine  of  five  dollars,"  said 
Dahl,  glaring  round  O'Farrell  at  the  shaking  Bot 
tler.  "I'll  pay  it,  an'  then  I'll  get  square  wit'  youse. 
Once  we're  footloose,  you  won't  last  as  long  as  a 
drink  of  whiskey!" 

The  judge  yawningly  listened,  while  O'Farrell 
told  his  tale  of  that  disturbance. 

"Five  an'  costs!"  quoth  the  judge,  and  called  the 
next  case. 

The  Bottler  returned  to  Suffolk  Street,  Dahl 
sought  Twist,  while  O'Farrell  again  took  the  trail  of 
the  loft- worker. 

Dahl  talked  things  over  with  Twist.  There  was 
but  one  way :  the  Bottler  must  die.  Anything  short 
of  blood  would  unsettle  popular  respect  for  Twist, 
and  without  that  his  leadership  of  the  Eastmans  was 
.a  farce. 

58 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

The  Bottler's  killing,  however,  must  be  managed 
with  a  decent  care  for  the  conventionalities.  For 
either  Twist  or  Dahl  to  walk  in  upon  that  offender 
and  shoot  him  to  death,  while  feasible,  would  be 
foolish.  The  coarse  extravagance  of  such  a  piece  of 
work  would  serve  only  to  pile  needless  difficulties  in 
the  pathway  of  what  politicians  must  come  to  the 
rescue.  It  was  impertinences  of  that  character 
which  had  sent  Monk  Eastman  to  Sing  Sing.  East 
man  had  so  far  failed  as  to  the  proprieties,  when  as 
a  supplement  to  highway  robbery  he  emptied  his  six- 
shooter  up  and  down  Forty-second  Street,  that  the 
politicians  could  not  save  him  without  burning  their 
fingers.  And  so  they  let  him  go.  Twist  had  justi 
fied  the  course  of  the  politicians  upon  that  occasion. 
He  would  not  now,  by  lack  of  caution  and  a  reason 
able  finesse,  force  them  into  similar  peril.  They 
musr  and  would  defend  him ;  but  it  was  not  for  him 
to  render  their  labors  too  up-hill  and  too  hard. 

Twist  sent  to  Williamsburg  for  his  friend  and 
ally,  Cyclone  Louie.  The  latter  was  a  bull-necked, 
highly  muscled  individual,  who  was  a  professional 
strong  man — so  far  as  he  was  professionally  any 
thing- — and  earned  occasional  side-show  money  at 
Coney  Island  by  bending  iron  bars  about  his  neck 
and  twisting  pokers  into  corkscrews  about  his 
brawny  arms. 

Louie,  Twist  and  Dahl  went  into  council  over  mu 
tual  beer,  and  Twist  explained  the  imperative 

59 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

for  the  Bottler's  extermination.  Also,  he  laid  bare 
the  delicate  position  of  both  himself  and  Dahl. 

In  country  regions  neighbors  aid  one  another  in 
bearing  the  burdens  of  an  agricultural  day  by 
changing  work.  The  custom  is  not  without  what 
one  might  call  gang  imitation  and  respect.  Only 
in  the  gang  instance  the  work  is  not  innocent,  but 
bloody.  Louie,  having  an  appreciation  of  what  was 
due  a  friend,  could  not  do  less  than  come  to  the  re 
lief  of  Twist  and  Dahl.  Were  positions  reversed, 
would  they  not  journey  to  Williamsburg  and  do  as 
much  for  him?  Louie  did  not  hesitate,  but  placed 
himself  at  the  disposal  of  Twist  and  Dahl.  The 
Bottler  should  die ;  he,  Louie,  would  see  to  that. 

"But  when  ?" 

Twist,  replying,  felt  that  the  thing  should  be  done 
at  once,  and  mentioned  the  following  evening,  nine 
o'clock.  The  place  should  be  the  Bottler's  establish 
ment  in  Suffolk  Street.  Louie,  of  whom  the  Bot 
tler  was  unafraid  and  ignorant,  should  experience 
no  difficulty  in  approaching  his  man.  There  would 
be  others  present ;  but,  practiced  in  gang  moralities, 
slaves  to  gang  etiquette,  no  one  would  open  his 
mouth.  Or,  if  he  did,  it  would  be  only  to  pour 
forth  perjuries,  and  say  that  he  had  seen  nothing, 
heard  nothing. 

Having  adjusted  details,  Louie,  Twist  and  Dahl 
compared  watches.  Watches?  Certainly.  Louie, 

60 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

Twist  and  Dahl  were  all  most  fashionably  attired 
and — as  became  members  of  a  gang  nobility — singu 
larly  full  and  accurate  in  the  important  element  of 
a  front,  indelicet,  that  list  of  personal  adornments 
which  included  scarf  pin,  ring  and  watch.  Louie, 
Dahl  and  Twist  saw  to  it  that  their  timepieces 
agreed.  This  was  so  that  Dahl  and  Twist  might 
arrange  their  alibis. 

It  was  the  next  evening.  At  8.55  o'clock  Twist 
V/PS  obtrusively  in  the  Delancey  Street  police  sta 
tion,  wrangling  with  the  desk  sergeant  over  the  re 
lease  of  a  follower  who  had  carefully  brought  about 
his  own  arrest. 

"Come,"  urged  Twist  to  the  sergeant,  "it's  next 
to  nine  o'clock  now.  Fix  up  the  bond;  I've  got  a 
date  over  in  East  Broadway  at  nine-thirty." 

While  Twist  stood  thus  enforcing  his  whereabouts 
and  the  hour  upon  the  attention  of  the  desk  ser 
geant,  Dahl  was  eating  a  beefsteak  in  a  Houston 
street  restaurant. 

"What  time  have  youse  got?"  demanded  Dahl  of 
the  German  who  kept  the  place. 

"Five  minutes  to  nine,"  returned  the  German, 
glancing  up  at  the  clock. 

"Oh,  t'aint  no  such  time  as  that,"  retorted  Dahl 
peevishly.  '"That  clock's  drunk!  Call  up  the  tele 
phone  people,  and  find  out  for  sure." 

"The  'phone  people  say  it's  nine  o'clock,"  re 
ported  the  German,  hanging  up  the  receiver. 

61 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

"Hully  gee!  I  didn't  think  it  was  more'n  half- 
past  eight !"  and  Dahl  looked  virtuously  corrected. 

While  these  fragments  of  talk  were  taking  place, 
the  Bottler  was  attending  to  his  stuss  interests.  He 
looked  pale  and  frightened,  and  his  hunted  eyes 
roved  here  and  there.  Five  minutes  went  by.  The 
clock  pointed  to  nine.  A  slouch-hat  stranger  en 
tered.  As  the  clock  struck  the  hour,  he  placed  the 
muzzle  of  a  pistol  against  the  Bottler's  breast,  and 
fired  twice.  Both  bullets  pierced  the  heart,  and  the 
Bottler  fell — dead  without  a  word.  There  were 
twenty  people  in  the  room.  When  the  police  arrived 
they  found  only  the  dead  Bottler. 

O'Farrell  recalled  those  trade  differences  which 
had  culminated  in  the  charge  of  disturbance,  and  ar 
rested  Dahl. 

"You  ain't  got  me  right,"  scoffed  Dahl. 

And  O'Farrell  hadn't. 

There  came  the  inquest,  and  Dahl  was  set  free. 
The  Bottler  was  buried,  and  Twist  and  Dahl  sent 
flowers  and  rode  to  the  grave. 

The  law  slept,  a  bat-eyed  constabulary  went  its 
way,  but  the  gangs  knew.  In  the  whispered  gossip 
of  Gangland  every  step  of  the  Bottler's  murder  was 
talked  over  and  remembered.  He  must  have  been 
minus  ears  and  eyes  and  understanding  who  did  not 
know  the  story.  The  glance  of  Gangland  turned  to 
wards  the  Five  Points.  What  would  be  their  ac 
tion?  They  were  bound  to  avenge.  If  not  for  the 

62 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Bottler's  sake,  then  for  their  own.  For  the  Bottler 
had  been  under  the  shadow  of  their  protection,  and 
gang  honor  was  involved.  On  the  Five  Points^ 
part  there  was  no  stumbling  of  the  spirit.  For  the 
death  of  the  Bottler  the  Five  Points  would  exact  the 
penalty  of  blood. 

Distinguished  among  the  chivalry  of  the  Five 
Points  was  Kid  Pioggi.  Only  a  paucity  of  years — 
he  was  under  eighteen — withheld  Pioggi  from  top 
most  honors.  Pioggi  was  not  specifically  assigned 
to  avenge  the  departed  Bottler.  Ambitious  and  gal 
lantly  anxious  of  advancement,  however,  he  of  his 
own  motion  carried  the  enterprise  in  the  stomach  of 
his  thoughts. 

The  winter's  snow  melted  into  spring,  spring 
lapsed  into  early  summer.  It  was  a  brilliant  even 
ing,  and  Pioggi  was  disporting  himself  at  Coney 
Island.  Also  Twist  and  Cyclone  Louie,  following 
some  plan  of  relaxation,  were  themselves  at  Coney 
Island. 

Pioggi  had  seated  himself  at  a  beer  table  in  Ding 
Dong's.  Twist  and  Louie  came  in.  Pioggi,  being 
of  the  Five  Points,  \vas  recognized  as  a  foe  by  Twist^ 
who  lost  no  time  in  mentioning  it. 

Being  in  a  facetious  mood,  and  by  way  of  express 
ing  his  contempt  for  that  gentleman,  Twist  made 
Pioggi  jump  out  of  the  window.  It  was  no  distance 
to  the  ground,  and  no  physical  harm  could  come. 
But  to  be  compelled  to  leave  Ding  Dong's  by  way  of 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

the  window,  rubbed  wrongwise  the  fur  of  Pioggi's 
feelings.  To  jump  from  a  window  stamps  one  with 
disgrace. 

Twist  and  Louie — burly,  muscular,  strong  as 
horses — were  adepts  of  rough-and-tumble.  Pioggi, 
little,  light  and  weak,  knew  that  any  thought  of 
physical  conflict  would  have  been  preposterous.  And 
yet  he  was  no  one  to  sit  quietly  down  with  his  hu 
miliation.  That  flight  from  Ding  Dong's  window 
would  be  on  every  tongue  in  Gangland.  The  name 
of  Pioggi  would  become  a  scorning;  the  tale  would 
stain  the  Pioggi  fame. 

Louie  and  Twist  sat  down  at  the  table  in  Ding 
Dong's,  from  which  Pioggi  had  been  driven,  and 
demanded  refreshment  in  the  guise  of  wine.  Pioggi, 
rage-swollen  as  to  heart,  busied  himself  at  a  nearby 
telephone.  Pioggi  got  the  ear  of  a  Higher  Influ 
ence  of  his  clan.  He  told  of  his  abrupt  dismissal 
from  Ding  Dong's,  and  the  then  presence  of  Louie 
and  Twist.  The  Higher  Influence  instructed  Pioggi 
to  keep  the  two  in  sight.  The  very  flower  of  the 
Five  Points  should  be  at  Coney  Island  as  fast  as 
trolley  cars  could  carry  them. 

"Tail  'em,"  said  the  Higher  Influence,  referring 
to  Twist  and  Louie;  "an'  when  the  fleet  gets  there 
go  in  wit'  your  cannisters  an'  bump  'em  off." 

While  waiting  the  advent  of  his  promised  forces, 
Pioggi,  maintaining  the  while  an  eye  on  Twist  and 
Louie  to  the  end  that  they  escape  not  and  disap- 

64 


pear,  made  arrangements  for  a  getaway.  He  es 
tablished  a  coupe,  a  fast  horse  between  the  shafts 
and  a  personal  friend  on  the  box,  where  he,  Pioggi, 
could  find  it  when  his  work  was  done. 

By  the  time  this  was  accomplished,  Pioggi's  re 
cruits  had  put  in  an  appearance.  They  did  not  de 
scend  upon  Coney  Island  in  a  body,  with  savage 
uproar  and  loud  cries.  Much  too  military  were  they 
for  that.  Rather  they  seemed  to  ooze  into  position 
around  Pioggi,  and  they  could  not  have  made  less 
noise  had  they  been  so  many  ghosts. 

The  campaign  was  soon  laid  out.  Louie  and 
Twist  still  sat  over  their  wine  at  Ding  Dong's. 
Now  and  then  they  laughed,  as  though  recalling  the 
ignominious  exit  of  Pioggi.  Means  must  be  em 
ployed  to  draw  them  into  the  street.  That  accom 
plished,  the  Five  Points'  Danites  were  to  drift  up 
behind  them,  and  at  a  signal  from  Pioggi,  empty 
their  pistols  into  their  backs.  Pioggi  would  fire  a 
bullet  into  Twist;  that  was  to  be  the  signal.  As 
Pioggi  whispered  his  instructions,  there  shone  a 
licking  eagerness  in  the  faces  of  those  who  listened. 
Nothing  so  exalts  the  gangster  like  blood  in  antici 
pation  ;  nothing  so  pleases  him  as  to  shoot  from  be 
hind. 

Pioggi  pitched  upon  one  whose  name  and  face 
vvere  unknown  to  Twist  and  Louie.  The  unknown 
would  be  the  bearer  of  a  blind  message — it  pur- 

65 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

ported  to  come  from  a  dancer  in  one  of  the  cheap 
theaters  of  the  place — calculated  to  bring  forth 
Twist  and  Louie. 

"Stall  'em  up  this  way,"  said  Pioggi,  indicating 
a  spot  within  touching  distance  of  that  coupe.  "It's 
here  we'll  put  'em  over  the  jump." 

The  place  pitched  upon  for  the  killing  was 
crowded  with  people.  It  was  this  very  thronged 
condition  which  had  led  to  its  selection.  The  crowd 
would  serve  as  a  cover  to  Five  Points  operations. 
It  would  prevent  a  premature  recognition  of  their 
assailants  by  Twist  and  Louie;  it  would  screen  the 
slayers  from  identification  by  casual  citizens  looking 
on. 

Pioggi's  messenger  did  well  his  work,  and  Twist 
and  Louie  moved  magnificently  albeit  unsteadily 
into  the  open.  They  were  sweeping  the  walk  clear 
of  lesser  mortals,  when  the  voice  of  Pioggi  arrested 
their  attention. 

"Oh,  there,  Twist;  look  here!" 

The  voice  came  from  the  rear  and  to  the  right; 
Pioggi's  position  was  one  calculated  to  place  the 
enemy  at  a  double  disadvantage. 

Twist  turned  his  head.  A  bullet  struck  him  above 
the  eye!  He  staggered!  The  lead  came  in  a 
storm!  Twist  went  down;  Louie  fell  across  him! 
There  were  twelve  bullets  in  Twist  and  eight  in 
Louie.  The  coroner  said  that  they  were  the  deadest 
people  of  whom  he  owned  official  recollection. 

66 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

As  the  forethoughtful  Pioggi  was  dashing  away 
in  his  coupe,  a  policeman  gave  chase.  Pioggi  drove 
a  bullet  through  the  helmet  of  the  law.  It  stopped 
pursuit;  but  Gangland  has  ever  held  that  the  shot 
was  an  error.  A  little  lower,  and  the  policeman 
would  have  been  killed.  Also,  the  death  of  a  police 
man  is  apt  to  entail  consequences. 

Pioggi  went  into  hiding  in  Greenwich,  where  the 
Five  Points  had  a  hold-out.  There  were  pullings 
and  haulings  and  whisperings  in  dark  political  cor 
ners.  When  conditions  had  been  whispered  and 
hauled  and  pulled  into  shape  satisfactory,  Pioggi 
sent  word  to  a  favorite  officer  to  come  and  arrest 
him. 

Pioggi  explained  to  the  court  that  his  life  had 
been  threatened;  he  had  shot  only  that  he  himself 
might  live.  His  age  was  seventeen.  Likewise  there 
had  been  no  public  loss;  the  going  of  Twist  and 
Louie  had  but  raised  the  average  of  all  respectability. 
The  court  pondered  the  business,  and  decided  that 
justice  would  be  fulfilled  by  sentencing  Pioggi  to  the 
Elmira  Reformatory. 

The  best  fashion  of  the  Five  Points  visited  Pioggi 
in  the  Tombs  on  the  morning  of  his  departure. 

"It's  only  thirteen  months,  Kid,"  came  encourag 
ingly  from  one.  "You  won't  mind  it." 

"Mind  it!"  responded  Pioggi,  in  disdain  of  the 
worst  that  Elmira  might  hold  for  him ;  "mind  it !  I 
could  do  it  standin'  on  me  head." 

67 


IV. 

IKE    THE   BLOOD 

Whenever  the  police  were  driven  to  deal  with  him 
officially,  he  called  himself  Charles  Livin,  albeit  the 
opinion  prevailed  at  headquarters  that  in  thus  spell 
ing  it,  he  left  off  a  final  ski.  The  police,  in  the 
wantonness  of  their  ignorance,  described  him  on 
their  books  as  a  burglar.  This  was  foolishly  wide. 
He  should  have  been  listed  as  a  simple  Strong-Arm, 
whose  methods  of  divorcing  other  people  from  their 
money,  while  effective,  were  coarse.  Also,  it  is  per 
haps  proper  to  mention  that  his  gallery  number  at 
the  Central  Office  was  10,394. 

It  was  during  the  supremacy  of  Monk  Eastman 
that  he  broke  out,  and  he  had  just  passed  his  seven 
teenth  birthday.  Being  out,  he  at  once  attached 
himself  to  the  gang-fortunes  of  that  chief;  and  it 
became  no  more  than  a  question  of  weeks  before 
his  vast  physical  strength,  the  energy  of  his  courage 
and  a  native  ferocity  of  soul,  won  him  his  proud 
war-name  of  Ike  the  Blood.  Compared  with  the 
herd  about  him,  in  what  stark  elements  made  the 
gangster  important  in  his  world,  he  shone  out  upon 
the  eyes  of  folk  like  stars  of  a  clear  cold  night. 

68 


Ike  the  Blood  looked  up  to  his  chief,  Monk  East 
man,  as  sailors  look  up  to  the  North  Star,  and  it 
wrung  his  soul  sorely  when  that  gang  captain 
went  to  Sing  Sing.  In  the  war  over  the  succession 
and  the  baton  of  gang  command,  waged  between 
Ritchie  Fitzpatrick  and  Kid  Twist,  Ike  the  Blood 
was  compelled  to  stand  neutral.  Powerless  to  take 
either  side,  liking  both  ambitious  ones,  the  trusted 
friend  of  both,  his  hands  were  tied;  and  later — first 
Fitzpatrick  and  then  Twist — he  followed  both  to  the 
grave,  sorrow  not  only  on  his  lips  but  in  his  heart. 

It  was  one  recent  August  day  that  I  was  granted 
an  introduction  to  Ike  the  Blood.  I  was  in  the  com 
pany  of  an  intimate  friend  of  mine — he  holds  high 
Central  Office  position  in  the  police  economy  of  New 
York.  We  were  walking  in  Henry  Street,  in  the 
near  vicinity  of  that  vigorous  organization,  the  Ajax 
Club — so  called,  I  take  it,  because  its  members  are 
forever  defying  the  lightnings  of  the  law.  My  Cen 
tral  Office  friend  had  mentioned  Ike  the  Blood, 
speaking  of  him  as  a  guiding  light  to  such  difficult 
ones  as  Little  Karl,  Whitey  Louie,  Benny  Weiss, 
Kid  Neumann,  Tomahawk,  Fritzie  Rice,  Dagley  and 
the  Lobster. 

Even  as  the  names  were  in  his  mouth,  his  keen 
Central  Office  glance  went  roving  through  the  open 
doorway  of  a  grogshop. 

"There's  Ike  the  Blood  now,"  said  he,  and  tossed 
a  thumb,  which  had  assisted  in  necking  many  a  male- 

69 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

factor  with  tastes  to  be  violent,  towards  the  grog 
shop. 

Since  to  consider  such  pillars  of  East  Side  Society 
was  the  great  reason  of  my  ramble,  we  entered  the 
place.  Ike  the  Blood  was  sitting  in  state  at  a  table 
to  the  rear  of  the  unclean  bar,  a  dozen  of  his  imme 
diate  followers — in  the  politics  of  gang  life  these 
formed  a  minor  order  of  nobility — with  him. 

Being  addressed  by  my  friend,  he  arose  and  joined 
us;  none  the  less  he  seemed  reticent  and  a  bit  dis 
turbed.  This  was  due  to  the  official  character  of  my 
friend,  plus  the  fact  that  the  jealous  eyes  of  those 
others  were  upon  him.  It  is  no  advantage  to  a 
leader,  like  Ike  the  Blood,  to  be  seen  in  converse 
with  a  detective.  Should  one  of  his  adherents  be 
arrested  within  a  day  or  a  week,  the  arrested  one 
reverts  to  that  conversation,  and  imagines  vain 
things. 

"Take  a  walk  with  us,  Ike,"  said  my  friend. 

Ike  the  Blood  was  obviously  reluctant.  Sinking 
his  voice,  and  giving  a  glance  over  his  shoulder  at 
his  myrmidons — not  ten  feet  away,  and  every  eye 
upon  him — he  remonstrated. 

"Say,  I  don't  want  to  leave  th'  push  settin'  here, 
to  go  chasin'  off  wit'  a  bull.  Fix  it  so  I  can  come 
uptown  sometime." 

"Very  well,"  returned  my  friend,  relenting;  "I 
don't  want  to  put  you  in  Dutch  with  your  fleet." 

There  was  a  whispered  brief  word  or  two,  and  an 
70 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

arrangement  for  a  meet  was  made ;  after  which  Ike 
the  Blood  lapsed  into  the  uneasy  circle  he  had 
quitted.  As  we  left  the  grogshop,  we  could  hear 
him  loudly  calling  for  beer.  Possibly  the  Central 
Office  nearness  of  my  friend  had  rendered  him 
thirsty.  Or  it  may  have  been  that  the  beer  was 
meant  to  wet  down  and  allay  whatever  of  sprouting 
suspicion  had  been  engendered  in  the  trustless 
breasts  of  his  followers. 

It  was  a  week  later. 

The  day,  dark  and  showery,  was — to  be  exact — 
the  eighth  of  August.  Faithful  to  that  whispered 
Henry  Street  arrangement,  Ike  the  Blood  sat  await 
ing  the  coming  of  my  friend  and  myself  in  the  Bal 
Tabarin.  He  had  spoken  of  the  stuss  house  of  Phil 
Casey  and  Paper  Box  Johnny,  in  Twenty-ninth 
Street,  but  my  friend  entered  a  protest.  There  was 
his  Central  Office  character  to  be  remembered.  A 
natural  embarrassment  must  ensue  were  he  brought 
face  to  face  with  stuss  in  a  state  of  activity.  Stuss 
was  a  crime,  by  surest  word  of  law,  and  he  had 
taken  an  oath  of  office.  He  did  not  care  to  pinch 
either  Paper  Box  or  Casey,  and  therefore  preferred 
not  to  be  drawn  into  a  situation  where  the  only  al 
ternative  would  be  to  either  pull  their  joint  or  lay 
the  bedplates  of  complaint  against  himself. 

"It's  no  good  time  to  be  up  on  charges,"  remon 
strated  my  friend,  "for  the  commish  that's  over  us 
now  would  sooner  grab  a  copper  than  a  crook." 

71 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Thus  instructed,  and  feeling  the  delicacy  of  my 
friend's  position,  Ike  the  Blood  had  shifted  sugges 
tion  to  the  Bal  Tabarin.  The  latter  house  of  enter 
tainment,  in  Twenty-eighth  Street,  was  innocent  of 
stuss  and  indeed  cards  in  any  form.  Kept  by  Sam 
Paul,  it  possessed  a  deserved  popularity  with  Ike 
and  the  more  select  of  his  acquaintances. 

Ike  the  Blood  appeared  to  better  advantage  in  the 
Bal  Tabarin  than  on  that  other,  Henry  Street,  grog 
shop  occasion.  Those  suspicious  ones,  of  lowering 
eye  and  doubtful  brow,  had  been  left  behind,  and 
their  absence  contributed  to  his  relief,  and  therefore 
to  his  looks.  Not  that  he  had  been  sitting  in  the 
midst  of  loneliness  at  the  Bal  Tabarin;  Whitey 
Dutch  and  Slimmy  were  with  him,  and  who  should 
have  been  better  company  than  they?  Also,  their 
presence  was  of  itself  an  honor,  since  they  were  of 
his  own  high  caste,  and  many  layers  above  a  mere 
gang  peasantry.  They  would  take  part  in  the  con 
versation,  too,  and,  if  to  talk  and  touch  glasses  with 
a  Central  Office  bull  were  an  offense,  it  would  leave 
them  as  deep  in  the  police  mud  as  was  he  in  the 
police  mire. 

Ike  the  Blood  received  us  gracefully,  if  not  en 
thusiastically,  and  was  so  polite  as  to  put  me  on  a 
friendly  footing  with  his  companions.  Greetings 
over,  and  settled  to  something  like  our  ease,  I  en 
gaged  myself  mentally  in  taking  Ike's  picture.  His 

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THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

forehead  narrow,  back-sloping  at  that  lively  angle 
identified  by  carpenters  as  a  quarter-pitch,  was  not 
the  forehead  of  a  philosopher.  I  got  the  impression, 
too,  that  his  small  brown  eyes,  sad  rather  than  ma 
lignant,  would  in  any  heat  of  anger  blaze  like  twin 
balls  of  brown  fire.  Cheek-bones  high ;  nose  beaky, 
predatory — such  a  nose  as  Napoleon  loved  in  his 
marshals;  mouth  coarsely  sensitive,  suggesting  tem 
perament;  the  broad,  bony  jaw  giving  promise  of 
what  staying  qualities  constitute  the  stock  in  trade 
of  a  bulldog ;  no  mustache,  no  beard ;  a  careless  lib 
erality  of  ear — that  should  complete  the  portrait. 
Fairly  given,  it  was  the  picture  of  one  who  acted 
more  than  he  thought,  and  whose  atmosphere  above 
all  else  conveyed  the  feeling  of  relentless  force — the 
picture  of  one  who  under  different  circumstances 
might  have  been  a  Murat  or  a  Massena. 

My  friend  managed  the  conversation,  and  did  it 
with  Central  Office  tact.  Knowing  what  I  was  after, 
he  brought  up  Gangland  and  the  gangs,  upon  which 
topics  Whitey  Dutch,  seeing  no  reasons  for  silence, 
spoke  instructively.  Aside  from  the  great  gangs, 
the  Eastmans  and  the  Five  Points,  I  learned  that 
other  smaller  yet  independent  gangs  existed.  Also, 
from  Whitey's  discourse,  it  was  made  clear  that 
just  as  countries  had  frontiers,  so  also  were  there 
frontiers  to  the  countries  of  the  gangs.  The  Five 
Points,  with  fifteen  hundred  on  its  puissant  muster 

73 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

rolls,  was  supreme — he  said — between  Broadway 
and  the  Bowery,  Fourteenth  Street  and  City  Hall 
Park.  The  Eastmans,  with  one  thousand  warriors, 
flourished  between  Monroe  and  Fourteenth  Streets, 
the  Bowery  and  the  East  River.  The  Gas  House 
Gang,  with  only  two  hundred  in  its  nose  count,  was 
at  home  along  Third  Avenue  between  Eleventh  and 
Eighteenth  Streets.  The  vivacious  Gophers  were 
altogether  heroes  of  the  West  Side.  They  numbered 
full  five  hundred,  each  a  holy  terror,  and  ranged  the 
region  bounded  by  Seventh  Avenue,  Fourteenth 
Street,  Tenth  Avenue  and  Forty-second  Street.  The 
Gophers  owned  a  rock-bottom  fame  for  their  fight 
ing  qualities,  and,  speaking  in  the  sense  militant, 
neither  the  Eastmans  nor  the  Five  Points  would 
care  to  mingle  with  them  on  slighter  terms  than 
two  to  one.  The  fulness  of  Whitey  Dutch,  himself 
of  the  Five  Points,  in  what  justice  he  did  the 
Gophers,  marked  his  splendid  breadth  of  soul. 

Ike  the  Blood,  overhung  by  some  cloud  of  moodi- 
ne§s,  devoted  himself  moderately  to  beer,  taking  lit 
tle  or  less  part  in  the  talk.  Evidently  there  was 
something  bearing  him  down. 

"I  ain't  feelin'  gay,"  he  remarked;  "an'  at  that, 
if  youse  was  to  ast  me,  I  couldn't  tell  youse  why." 

As  though  a  thought  had  been  suggested,  he 
arose  and  started  for  the  door. 

"I  won't  be  away  ten  minutes,"  he  said. 

Slimmy  looked  curiously  at  Whitey  Dutch. 
74 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

"He's  chased  off  to  one  of  them  fortune-tellers," 
said  Whitey. 

"Do  youse  take  any  stock  in  them  ginks  who 
claims  they  can  skin  a  deck  of  cards,  or  cock  their 
eye  into  a  teacup,  an'  then  put  you  next  to  everyt'ing 
that'll  happen  to  you  in  a  year?" 

Slimmy  aimed  this  at  me. 

Upon  my  assurance,  given  with  emphasis,  that  I 
attached  no  weight  to  so-called  seers  and  fortune 
tellers,  he  was  so  magnanimous  as  to  indorse  my 
position. 

"They're  a  bunch  of  cheap  bunks,"  he  declared. 
"I've  gone  ag'inst  'em  time  an'  time,  an'  there's 
nothin'  in  it.  One  of  'em  gives  me  his  woid — after 
me  comin'  across  wit'  fifty  cents — th'  time  Belfast 
Danny's  in  trouble,  that  Danny'll  be  toined  out  all 
right.  Two  days  later  Danny  gets  settled  for  five 
years." 

"Ike's  stuck  on  'em,"  remarked  Whitey. 

Slimmy  and  Whitey  Dutch,  speaking  freely  and 
I  think  veraciously,  told  me  many  things.  Whitey 
explained  that,  while  he  and  Slimmy  were  shining 
lights  of  the  Five  Points,  yet  to  be  found  fraterniz 
ing  with  Ike  the  Blood — an  Eastman — was  in  per 
fect  keeping  with  gang  proprieties.  For,  as  he 
pointed  out,  there  was  momentary  truce  between  the 
Eastmans  and  the  Five  Points.  Among  the  gangs, 
in  seasons  of  gang  peace,  the  nobles — by  word  of 
Whitey — were  expected  to  make  stately  calls  of  cere- 

75 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

mony  and  good  fellowship  upon  one  another,  as  had 
been  the  wont  among  Highland  chieftains  in  the 
days  of  Bruce  and  Wallace. 

"Speaking  of  the  Gas  House  Gang :  how  do  they 
live?"  I  asked. 

"Stickin*  up  lushes  mostly." 

"How  much  of  this  stick-up  work  goes  on?" 

"Well"— thoughtfully— "they'll  pull  off  as  many 
as  twenty-five  stick-ups  to-night." 

"There's  no  such  number  of  squeals  coming  in  at 
headquarters." 

The  contradiction  emanated  from  my  Central  Of 
fice  friend,  who  felt  criticized  by  inference. 

"Squeals!"  exclaimed  Whitey  Dutch  with 
warmth,  "w'y  should  they  squeal  ?  The  Gas  House 
push'd  cook  'em  if  they  squealed.  Suppose  right 
now  I  was  to  go  out  an'  get  put  in  th'  air;  do  you 
think  I'd  squeal?  Well,  I  should  say  not;  I'm  no 
mutt !  They'd  about  come  gallopin'  'round  tomorry 
wit'  bale-sticks,  an'  break  me  arms  an'  legs,  or 
mebby  knock  me  block  off.  W'y,  not  a  week  ago, 
three  Gas  House  shtockers  stands  me  up  in  Riving- 
ton  Street,  an'  takes  me  clock — a  red  one  wit'  two 
doors.  Then  they  pinches  a  fiver  out  of  me  keck. 
They  even  takes  me  bank-book. 

"  'Wat  license  has  a  stiff  like  youse  got  to  have 
$375  in  th'  bank?'  they  says — like  that. 

"Next  night  they  comes  bluffin'  round  for  me 
three  hundred  and  seventy-five  dollar  plant — w'at 

76 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

do  you  t'ink  of  that?  But  I'm  there  wit'  a  gatt  me- 
self  that  time,  an'  ready  to  give  'em  an  argument. 
Wen  they  sees  I'm  framed  up,  they  gets  cold  feet. 
But  you  can  bet  I  don't  do  no  squealin' !" 

"Did  you  get  back  your  watch  ?" 

"How  could  I  get  it  back?"  peevishly.  "No,  I 
don't  get  back  me  watch.  All  the  same,  I'll  lay  for 
them  babies.  Some  day  I'll  get  'em  right,  an'  trim 
'em  to  the  queen's  taste." 

My  friend,  leading  conversation  in  his  specious 
Central  Office  way,  spoke  of  Ike  the  Blood's  iron 
fame,  and  slanted  talk  in  that  direction. 

"Ike  can  certainly  go  some!"  observed  Slimmy 
meditatively.  "Take  it  from  me,  there  ain't  any  of 
'em,  even  th'  toughest  ever,  wants  his  game." 
Turning  to  Whitey:  "Don't  youse  remember, 
Whitey,  when  he  tears  into  Humpty  Jackson  an' 
two  of  his  mob,  over  in  Thirteenth  Street,  that  time  ? 
There's  nothin'  to  it !  Ike  simply  makes  'em  jump 
t'rough  a  hoop!  Every  lobster  of  'em  has  his  rod 
wit'  him,  too." 

"They  wouldn't  have  had  the  nerve  to  fire  'em  if 
they'd  pulled  'em,"  sneered  Whitey.  "Ike'd  have 
made  'em  eat  th'  guttaperchy  all  off  th'  handles,  too. 
Say,  I  don't  t'ink  much  of  that  Gas  House  fleet. 
They  talk  strong;  but  they  don't  bring  home  th' 
goods,  see!" 

It  appeared  that,  in  spite  of  his  sanguinary  title, 
Ike  the  Blood  had  never  killed  his  man. 

77 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

.  "He's  tried,"  explained  Slimmy,  who  felt  as 
though  the  absent  one,  in  his  blood-guiltlessness,  re 
quired  defense;  "but  he  all  th'  time  misses.  Ike's 
th'  woist  shot  wit'  a  rod  in  th'  woild." 

"Sure,  Mike!" — from  Whitey  Dutch,  his  nose  in 
his  drink;  "he  couldn't  hit  th'  Singer  Buildin'." 
'"How  does  he  make  his  money?"  I  asked. 

"Loft  worker,"  broke  in  my  friend. 

The  remark  was  calculated  to  explode  the  others 
into  fresh  confidences. 

"Don't  youse  believe  it!''  came  in  vigorous  de 
nial  from  Whitey  Dutch.  "Ike  never  cracked  a  bin 
in  his  life.  You  bulls" — this  was  pointed  especially 
at  my  friend — "say  he's  a  dip,  too.  W'y,  it's  a 
laugh !  Ike  couldn't  pick  th'  pocket  of  a  dead  man 
— couldn't  put  his  hand  into  a  swimmin'  tank! 
That's  how  fly  he  is." 

"Now  don't  try  to  string  me,"  retorted  my  friend, 
severely.  "Didn't  Ike  fill  in  with  Little  Alaxie  and 
his  mob,  when  they  worked  the  Jersey  fairs?" 

"But  that  was  only  to  do  the  strong-arm  work, 
in  case  there's  a  scrap,"  protested  Whitey.  "On  th' 
level,  Ike  is  woise  than  Big  Abrarns.  He  can't  even 
stall.  An'  as  for  gettin'  a  leather  or  a  watch,  gettin' 
a  perfecto  out  of  a  cigar  box  would  be  about  his 
limit." 

"That  Joisey's  a  bum  place;  youse  can  go  there 
for  t'ree  cents." 

The  last  was  interjected  by  Slimmy — who  had  a 
78 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

fine  wit  of  his  own — with  the  hopeful  notion  of  di 
verting  discussion  to  less  exciting  questions  than 
pocket-picking  at  the  New  Jersey  fairs. 

It  developed  that  while  Ike  the  Blood  had  now 
and  then  held  up  a  stuss  game  for  its  bank-roll,  dur 
ing  some  desperate  ebb-tide  of  his  fortunes,  he  drew 
his  big  income  from  a  yearly  ball. 

"He  gives  a  racket,"  declared  Whitey  Dutch; 
"that's  how  Ike  gets  his  dough.  Th'  last  one  he 
pulls  off  nets  him  about  twenty-five  hundred  plunks." 

"What  price  were  the  tickets?"  I  inquired. 
Twenty-five  hundred  dollars  sounded  large. 

"Th'  tickets  is  fifty  cents,"  returned  Whitey,  "but 
that's  got  nothin'  to  do  wit'  it.  A  guy  t'rows  down 
say  a  ten-spot  at  th'  box-office,  like  that" — and 
Whitey  made  a  motion  with  his  hand,  which  wa§ 
royal  in  its  generous  openness.  "  'Gimme  a  paste 
board!'  he  says;  an'  that  ends  it;  he  ain't  lookin' 
for  no  change  back.  Every  sport  does  th'  same. 
Some  t'rows  in  five,  some  ten,  some  guy  even 
changes  in  a  twenty  if  he's  pulled  off  a  trick  an'  is 
feelin'  flush.  It's  all  right;  there's  nothin'  in  bein' 
a  piker.  Ike  himself  sells  th'  tickets;  an'  th'  more 
you  planks  down  th'  more  he  knows  you  like  him." 

It  was  becoming  plain.  A  gentleman  of  gang 
prominence  gives  a  ball — a  racket — and  coins,  so  to 
speak,  his  disrepute.  He  of  sternest  and  most 
bloody  past  takes  in  the  most  money.  To  discover 
one's  status  in  Gangland,  one  has  but  to  give  a 

79 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

racket. .  The  measure  of  the  box-receipts  will  be 
the  dread  measure  of  one's  reputation. 

"One  t'ing  youse  can  say  of  Ike,"  observed 
Slimmy,  wearing  the  while  a  look  of  virtue,  "he 
never  made  no  money  off  a  woman." 

"Never  in  all  his  life  took  a  dollar  off  a  doll !" 
added  Whitey,  corroboratively. 

Ike  the  Blood  reappearing  at  this  juncture,  it  was 
deemed  best  to  cease — audibly,  at  least — all  consid 
eration  of  his  merits.  He  might  have  regarded  dis 
cussion,  so  personal  to  himself,  with  disfavor. 
Laughing  lightly,  he  took  his  old  place  at  the  table, 
and  beckoned  the  waiter.  Compared  with  what  had 
been  its  former  cloudy  expression,  his  face  wore  a 
look  of  relief. 

"Say,  I  don't  mind  tellin'  youse  guys,"  he  said 
at  last,  breaking  into  an  uneasy  laugh,  "but  th'  fact 
is,  I  skinned  round  into  Sixt'  Avenoo  to  a  fortune 
teller — a  dandy,  she  is — one  that  t'rows  a  fit,  or 
goes  into  a  trance,  or  some  such  t'ing." 

"A  fortune  teller!"  said  Slimmy,  as  though  he'd 
never  heard  the  word  before. 

"It's  on  account  of  a  dream.  In  all  th'  years" — 
Ike  spoke  as  might  one  who  had  put  a  century  be 
hind  him — '"in  all  th'  years  I've  been  knockin'  about, 
an'  I've  had  me  troubles,  I  never  gets  a  notch  on  me 
gun,  see  ?  Not  that  I  went  lookin'  for  any ;  not  that 
I'm  lookin'  for  any  now.  But  last  night  I  had  a 
dream : — I  dreams  I  croaks  a  guy.  Mebby  it's  some- 

80 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

t'in'  I'd  been  eatin';  mebby  it's  because  of  me  bav 
in'  a  pretty  hot  argument  th'  mornin'  before;  but 
anyhow  it  bothers  me — that  dream  does.  You  see" 
— this  to  my  friend — "I'm  figgerin'  on  openin'  a 
house  over  in  Twenty-fift'  Street,  an'  these  West 
Side  ducks  is  all  for  givin'  me  th'  frozen  face.  They 
say  I  oughter  stick  down  on  th'  East  Side,  where  I 
belongs,  an'  not  come  chasin'  up  here,  cuttin'  in  on 
their  graft.  Anyhow,  I  dreams  I  puts  th'  foist 
notch  on  me  gun " 

"And  so  you  consult  a  fortune  teller,"  laughed  my 
friend,  who  was  not  superstitious,  but  practical. 

"Wait  till  I  tells  you.  As  I  says,  I  blows  in  on 
that  trance  party.  I  don't  wise  her  up  about  any 
dream,  but  comes  t'rough  wit'  th'  little  old  one  buck 
she  charges,  an'  says :  'There  you  be !  Now  roll 
your  game  for  th'  limit !' ' 

"Which  she  proceeded  to  do,"  broke  in  my  friend. 

"Listen!  Th'  old  dame — after  coppin'  me  dollar 
— stiffens  back  an'  shuts  her  eyes ;  an'  next,  th'  foist 
flash  out  of -th'  box  she  says — speakin'  like  th'  wind 
in  a  keyhole :  'You're  in  th'  midst  of  trouble ;  a  man 
is  killed!'  Then  she  wakes  up.  'W'y  didn't  youse 
go  t'rough  ?'  I  says ;  'I  want  th'  rest.  Who  is  it  gets 
croaked,  th'  other  dub  or  me  ?'  Th'  old  dame  insists 
that  to  go  back,  an'  get  th'  address  of  th'  party  who's 
been  bumped  off,  she  must  have  another  dollar.  Oh, 
they're  th'  birds,  them  fortune  tellers,  to  grab  th' 
dough !  But  of  course  I  can't  stop  there,  so  I  bucks 

81 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

up  wit'  another  bone.  'There  you  be/  I  says;  'now, 
is  it  me  that  gets  it,  or  does  he?" 

"Wat  he?"  demanded  Whitey. 

"How  do  I  know  ?"  The  tone  and  manner  were 
impatient.  "It's  th'  geek  I'm  havin'  trouble  wit'." 
Ike  looked  at  me,  as  one  who  would  understand  and 
perhaps  sympathize,  and  continued:  "This  time  th' 
old  dame  says  th'  party  who's  been  cooked  is  some 
other  guy;  it  ain't  me.  T  can  see  now  that  it  ain't 
you,'  she  says.  'You're  ridin'  away  in  a  patrol 
wagon,  wit'  a  lot  of  harness  bulls.'  That's  good  so 
far.  'So  I  gets  th'  collar?'  I  says.  'How  about  th' 
trial  ?'  She  answers,  'There  ain't  no  trial ;'  an'  then 
she  comes  out  of  her  trance,  same  as  a  diver  comes 
up  out  o'  the  water." 

"Is  that  all  ?"  asked  Slimmy. 

"That's  where  she  lets  me  off." 

"W'y  don't  youse  dig  for  another  dollar,"  said 
Whitey,  "an'  tell  th'  old  hag  to  put  on  her  suit  an' 
go  down  ag'in  for  th'  rest?"  Whitey  had  been  im 
pressed  by  that  simile  of  the  diver. 

"Wat  more  is  there  to  get?  I  ain't  killed;  an'  I 
ain't  tried — that  oughter  do  me.  Th'  coroner  t'rows 
me  loose,  most  likely.  Anyhow,  I  ain't  goin'  to  sit 
there  all  day,  skinnhr  me  roll  for  that  old  sponge — 
a  plunk  a  crack,  too." 

"Talk  of  th'  cost  of  livin' !"  remarked  Slimmy, 
with  a  grin.  "Ain't  it  fierce,  th'  way  them  fortune 
tellers'll  slim  a  guy's  bank-roll  for  him,  once  they 

82 


THE   APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

has  him  hooked  ?  They'll  get  youse  to  goin' ;  an' 
after  that  it's  like  one  of  them  stories  w'at  ends  wit' 
'Continued  in  our  next.'  W'y,  it's  like  playin'  th' 
horses,  only  woise.  Th'  foist  day  you  goes  out  to 
win;  an'  after  that,  you  keep  goin'  back  to  get  even." 

Ike  the  Blood  paid  no  heed  to  the  pessimistic  phi 
losophy  of  Slimmy;  he  was  too  wholly  wrapped  up 
in  what  he  had  been  told. 

"Well,"  he  broke  forth,  following  a  ruminative 
pause,  "anyhow,  I'd  sooner  he  gets  it  than  me." 

"There  you  go  ag'in  about  that  'he,'  "  protested 
Whitey,  and  the  manner  of  Whitey  was  querulous. 

"Th'  guy  she  sees  me  hooked  up  wit' !"  This 
came  off  a  bit  warmly.  "You  know  w'at  I  mean." 

"Take  it  easy! — take  it  easy!"  urged  my  friend. 
"What  is  there  to  get  hot  about?  You  don't  mean 
to  say,  Ike,  you're  banking  on  that  guff  the  old 
dame  handed  you?" 

"Next  \veek" — the  shadow  of  a  smile  playing 
across  his  face — "I  won't  believe  it.  But  it  sounds 
like  th'  real  t'ing  now." 

The  door  of  the  Bal  Tabarin  opened  to  the  advent 
of  a  weasel-eyed  individual. 

"Hello,  Whitey!"  exclaimed  Weasel-eye  cheerily, 
shaking  hands  with  Whitey  Dutch.  "I  just  leaves 
a  namesake  of  yours ;  an'  say,  he's  in  bad !" 

"Wat  namesake?" 

"Whitey  Louie.  A  bunch  of  them  West  Side 
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THE    'APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

guerrillas  has  him  cornered,  over  in  a  dump  at 
Twenty-seventh  Street  and  Seventh  Avenoo.  It 
looks  like  there'd  be  somethin'  doin' ;  an',  as  I  don't 
want  no  part  of  it,  I  screws  out." 

At  the  name  of  Whitey  Louie,  Ike  the  Blood 
arose  to  his  feet. 

"Whitey  Louie?"  he  questioned;  "Seventh  Ave 
noo  an'  Twenty-seventh  Street?" 

"That's  th'  ticket,"  replied  Weasel-eye;  "an* 
youse  can  cash  on  it." 

Ike  the  Blood  hurried  out  the  door. 

"Whitey  Louie  is  Ike's  closest  pal,"  observed 
Whitey  Dutch,  explaining  the  hurried  departure. 

"Will  there  be  trouble  ?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  t'ink  so,"  said  Slimmy.  "It's  four  for 
one  they'll  lay  down  to  Ike." 

"Don't  put  your  swell  bet  on  it !"  came  warn- 
ingly  from  Whitey  Dutch;  "them  Gophers  are  as 
tough  a  bunch  as  ever  comes  down  the  pike." 

"Tough  nothin'!"  returned  Slimmy:  "they'll  be 
duck  soup  to  Ike." 

"Why  don't  you  look  into  it?"  I  asked,  turning 
to  my  friend.  As  a  taxpayer,  I  yearned  for  some 
return  on  that  $16,000,000  a  year  which  New  York 
City  pays  for  its  police. 

That  ornament  of  the  Central  Office  yawned,  and 
motioned  to  the  waiter  to  bring  his  bill. 

"That  sort  of  thing  is  up  to  the  cop  on  the  beat," 
said  he. 

84 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

"Whitey  an'  me  'ud  get  in  on  it,"  explained 
Slimmy — his  expression  was  one  of  half  apology — 
"only  you  see  we  belong  at  th'  other  end  of  th' 
alley.  We're  Five  Points;  Ike  an'  Whitey  Louie 
are  Eastmans ;  an'  in  a  clash  between  Eastmans  an' 
Gophers,  it's  up  to  us  to  stand  paws-off,  see!" 

"That's  straight  talk,"  coincided  Whitey. 

"Suppose,  seeing  it's  stopped  raining,  we  drift 
over  there,"  said  my  friend,  adjusting  his  Panama 
at  the  exact  Central  Office  angle. 

As  we  journeyed  along,  I  noticed  Slimmy  and 
Whitey  Dutch  across  the  street.  It  was  already 
written  that  Whitey  Dutch,  himself,  would  be  shot 
to  death  in  the  Stag  before  the  year  was  out;  but 
the  shadow  of  that  impending  taking-off  was  not 
apparent  in  his  face.  Indeed,  from  that  face  there 
shone  forth  only  pleasure  in  anticipation,  and  a 
lively  interest. 

"They'd  no  more  miss  it  than  they'd  miss  a  play 
at  the  theater,"  remarked  my  friend,  who  saw 
where  my  glance  was  directed. 

About  a  ginmill,  on  the  corner  of  Seventh  Ave 
nue  and  Twenty-seventh  Street,  a  crowd  had  col 
lected.  A  patrol  wagon  was  backing  up. 

An  officer  in  uniform  tossed  a  prisoner  into  the 
wagon,  with  no  more  ceremony  than  should  attend 
the  handling  of  a  bag  of  bran. 

"It's  Dubillier!"  exclaimed  Whitey  Dutch,  nam 
ing1  the  prisoner. 

85 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

The  two  Five  Pointers  had  taken  position  on  the 
edge  of  the  crowd,  directly  in  front  of  my  friend 
and  me. 

"There's  Ike!"  said  Slimmy,  as  two  policemen 
were  seen  pushing  their  way  towards  the  patrol 
wagon,  Ike  the  Blood  between  them.  "Them  bulls 
is  holdin'  him  up,  too,  an'  his  face  is  as  pale  as 
paper!  By  thunder,  they've  nailed  him!" 

"I  told  you  them  Gophers  were  tough  students," 
was  the  comment  of  Whitey  Dutch. 

My  friend  began  forcing  his  way  forward.  As 
he  plowed  through  the  crowd,  Whitey  Dutch  and 
Slimmy,  having  advantage  of  his  wake,  kept  close 
at  his  heels. 

Slimmy  threw  me  a  whispered  word :  "Be  th' 
way  th'  mob  is  actin',  I  t'ink  Ike  copped  one." 

Slimmy,  before  the  lapse  of  many  minutes,  was 
again  at  my  side,  attended  by  Whitey  Dutch.  The 
pair  wore  that  manner  of  quick  yet  neutral  appre 
ciation  which  belongs — we'll  say — with  such  as 
English  army  officers  visiting  the  battlefield  of 
Santiago  while  the  action  between  the  Spaniards 
and  the  Americans  is  being  waged.  It  wasn't  their 
fight,  it  was  an  Eastman-Gopher  fight,  but  as  full 
blown  Five  Pointers  it  became  them  vastly  to  be 
present.  Also,  they  might  learn  something. 

"Ike  dropped  one,"  nodded  Whitey  Dutch,  an 
swering  the  question  in  my  eye.  "It's  Ledwich." 

"What  was  the  row  about?"  I  asked. 


THE    APACHES   OF    NEW    YORK 

"Whitey  Louie.  The  Gophers  was  goin'  to  hand 
it  to  him;  but  just  then  Ike  comes  through  th'  door 
on  th'  run,  an'  wit'  that  they  outs  wit'  their  rods 
an'  goes  to  peggin'  at  him.  Then  Ike  gets  to  goin' 
an'  cops  Ledwich." 

"Th'  best  th'  Gophers  can  get,"  observed  Slimmy 
— and  his  manner  was  as  the  manner  of  one  bal 
ancing  an  account — "th'  best  th'  Gophers  can  get 
is  an  even  break ;  an'  to  do  that  they'll  have  to  cash 
on  Ike.  Whitey  Louie?  He  makes  his  get-away 
all  right.  Say,  Whitey,  let's  beat  it  round  to  the 
Tenderloin  Station,  an'  get  th'  finish." 

The  finish  was  soon  told.  Ike  the  Blood  lay 
dead  on  the  station  house  floor ;  a  bullet  had  drilled 
its  dull  way  through  his  lungs.  An  officer  was 
just  telephoning  his  people  in  Chrystie  Street. 

"Now  do  youse  see?"  said  Whitey  Dutch,  cor 
recting  what  he  conceived  to  be  Slimmy's  skepti 
cism  ;  "that  fortune  tellin'  skirt  handed  out  th'  right 
dope.  'One  croaked ! — Ike  in  th'  hurry-up  wagon ! 
— no  trial!'  That's  th'  spiel  she  makes;  an'  it  falls 
true,  see!" 

"Ike  oughter  have  dug  down  for  another  bone," 
returned  Slimmy,  more  than  half  convinced;  "she'd 
have  put  him  hep  to  that  bullet  in  his  breather, 
mebby." 

"Wat  good  'ud  that  have  done?" 

"Good  ?  If  he'd  got  th'  tip,  he  might  have  ducked 
— you  can't  tell." 

87 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"It's  a  bad  business,"  I  commented  to  my  friend, 
who  had  rejoined  me. 

"It  would  be  a  good  thing" — shrugging  his 
cynical  Central  Office  shoulders — "if,  with  a  change 
of  names,  it  could  happen  every  day  in  the  year. 
By  the  way,  I  forgot  my  umbrella ;  let's  go  back  to 
the  Bal  Tabarin." 


88 


V. 

INDIAN   LOUIE 

No  one  knew  his  real  name,  not  even  the  police, 
and  the  police,  let  me  tell  you,  know  much  more 
than  they  can  prove.  The  Central  Office  never  once 
had  the  pleasure  of  mugging  and  measuring  and 
parading  him  at  the  morning  bawling  out,  and  the 
Mulberry  Street  records  to  the  last  were  barren  con 
cerning  him.  For  one  brief  space  and  only  one  did 
Mulberry  Street  nourish  hopes.  That  was  when  he 
himself  let  it  be  thought  that  somewhere,  some 
time,  somehow,  he  had  taken  some  one's  life.  At 
this,  Mulberry  Street  fairly  shook  the  wide  earth 
like  a  tablecloth  in  search  of  proof,  but  got  not 
so  much  as  one  poor  crumb  of  confirmation. 

It  was  at  Big  Jack's  in  Chatham  Square  that 
local  history  first  laid  eyes  on  him.  Big  Jack  is 
gone  now;  the  Committee  of  Fourteen  decided  upon 
him  virtuously  as  an  immoralist,  handed  him  the 
fatal  blue  paper,  and  he  perished.  Jack  Sirocco — 
who  was  himself  blue-papered  in  a  Park  Row  hour 
— keeps  the  place  now. 

Starting  from  Big  Jack's,  he  soon  began  to  be 
known  in  Flynn's,  and  Nigger  Mike's,  and  about 

89 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

the  Chatham  Club.  When  his  pals  spoke  to  him 
they  called  him  Louie.  When  they  spoke  of  him  they 
called  him  Indian  Louie,  or  Spanish  Louie,  to  the 
end  that  he  be  identified  among1  the  hosts  of  East 
Side  Louies,  who  were  and  are  as  many  as  the 
leaves  on  a  large  tree. 

Rumor  made  Indian  Louie  a  native  of  South 
America,  and  his  dark  skin,  black  eyes,  thin  lips, 
high  cheek-bones  and  high  curved  nose  helped 
rumor  out  in  this.  Also,  he  was  supposed  to  be 
of  Spanish  or  Portuguese  extraction. 

When  Louie  was  buried,  this  latter  assumption 
received  a  jolt.  His  funeral,  conducted  by  a  rabbi, 
was  according  to  strictest  Hebrew  ceremonial. 
Two  pieces  of  porcelain  were  laid  upon  his  eyes, 
as  intimating  that  he  had  seen  enough.  A  feather, 
which  a  breath  would  have  disturbed,  was  placed 
upon  his  upper  lip.  This  was  to  evidence  him  as 
fully  and  conclusively  dead,  although  on  that  point, 
in  all  conscience,  the  coroner's  finding  should  have 
been  enough.  The  flowers,  which  Gangland  sent 
to  prove  its  grief,  were  put  aside  because  too  gay 
and  pleasant.  The  body  was  laid  upon  straw.  A 
would-be  pallbearer,  since  his  name  was  Cohen, 
had  to  be  excluded  from  the  rites,  as  any  orthodox 
Jew  could  have  told  him  must  be  the  case.  For 
death  and  the  dead  are  unclean ;  and  a  Cohen,  who 
by  virtue  of  his  name  is  of  the  high-priest  caste — 
Aaron  was  a  Cohen — and  tends  the  altars,  must 

90 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

touch  nothing,  approach  nothing,  that  is  unclean. 
The  funeral  was  scrupulously  held  before  the  sec 
ond  sun  went  down,  and  had  to  be  hurried  a  little, 
because  the  morgue  authorities,  hobbled  of  red 
tape,  move  as  slowly  as  the  sea  itself  in  giving  up 
the  dead.  The  coffin — of  poorest  pine — was 
knocked  to  pieces  in  the  grave,  before  the  clods  of 
earth  were  shoveled  in  and  the  doomsday  sods  laid 
on.  The  garments  of  him  who  acted  as  principal 
mourner  were  faithfully  torn;  that  is  to  say,  the 
rabbi  cut  a  careful  slit  in  the  lapel  of  that  mourner's 
waistcoat  where  it  wouldn't  show. 

You  will  see  from  this,  that  every  detail  was 
holy  by  most  .ancient  Jewish  prescription.  And  the 
business  led  to  talk.  Those  about  Flynn's,  Nigger 
Mike's  and  the  Chatham  Club,  to  say  naught  of 
members  of  the  Humpty  Jackson  gang,  and  others 
who  in  his  latter  days  had  been  near  if  not  dear 
to  him,  confessed  that  it  went  far  in  contradic 
tion  of  any  Spanish  or  Portuguese  ancestry  for 
Louie. 

Louie  was  a  mystery,  and  studied  to  be  so.  And 
to  be  a  mystery  is  as  difficult  as  being  a  hypocrite. 
One  wrong  word,  one  moment  off  your  guard,  and 
to,  a  flood  of  light !  The  mystery  vanishes,  the 
hypocrisy  is  laid  bare.  You  are  no  longer  a  riddle. 
Or,  if  so,  then  a  riddle  that  has  been  solved.  And 
he  who  was  a  riddle,  but  has  been  solved,  is  every 
where  scoffed  at  and  despised. 

91 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Louie  must  have  possessed  a  genius  for  mystery, 
since  not  once  did  he  fall  down  in  that  difficult 
role.  He  denied  nothing,  confirmed  nothing,  of  the 
many  tales  told  about  him.  A  waif -word  wagged 
that  he  had  been  in  the  army,  without  pointing  to 
any  regiment;  and  that  he  had  been  in  the  navy, 
without  indicating  what  boat.  Louie,  it  is  to  be 
thought,  somewhat  fostered  this  confusion.  It 
deepened  him  as  a  mystery,  and  made  him  more 
impressive. 

Louie  was  careful,  also,  that  his  costume  should 
assist.  He  made  up  all  in  black — black  shoes,  black 
trousers,  black  coat,  black  hat  of  semi-sombrero 
type.  Even  in  what  may  be  spoken  of  as  the  matter 
of  linen — although  there  was  no  linen  about  it — he 
adhered  to  that  funereal  hue,  and  in  lieu  of  a  shirt 
wore  a  sweater,  collar  close  up  to  the  chin,  and  all 
as  black  as  his  coat.  As  he  walked  the  streets, 
black  eyes  challenging,  threatening,  from  under 
neath  the  black,  wide-rimmed  hat,  he  showed  not 
from  top  to  toe  a  fleck  of  white. 

Among  what  tales  went  here  and  there  concern 
ing  Louie,  there  was  one  which  described  him  as 
the  deadest  of  dead  shots.  This  he  accentuated  by 
a  brace  of  big  Colt's  pistols,  which  bore  him  con 
stant  company,  daylight  and  dark.  There  was  no 
evidence  of  his  having  used  this  artillery,  no  word 
of  any  killing  to  his  perilous  glory.  Indeed,  he 

92 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

couldn't  have  pointed  to  so  much  as  one  wounded 
man. 

Only  once  did  those  pistols  come  into  play.  Val- 
enski's  stuss  house,  in  Third  Avenue  near  Four 
teenth  Street,  was  put  in  the  air.  The  hold-ups 
descended  upon  Valenski's,  grabbed  $80  which  was 
on  the  table,  and  sent  Valenski  into  his  safe  for 
$300  more.  While  this  went  on,  Louie  stood  in  the 
door,  a  gun  in  each  fist,  defying  the  gaping,  star 
ing,  pop-eyed  public  to  interfere.  He  ran  no  risk, 
as  everyone  well  knew.  The  East  Side,  while  valor 
ous,  never  volunteers.  There  was  no  more  chance 
of  outside  interference  to  save  Valenski  from  be 
ing  plundered,  than  of  outside  contributions  to 
make  him  up  another  roll. 

The  incident  might  have  helped  in  building  up 
for  Louie  a  reputation,  had  it  not  been  that  all  that 
was  starkly  heroic  therein  melted  when,  two  days 
later,  the  ravished  $380  was  privily  restored  to 
Valenski,  with  the  assurance  that  the  entire  busi 
ness  was  a  jest.  Valenski  knew  nothing  humor 
ous  had  been  intended,  and  that  his  bundle  was 
returned  in  deference  only  to  the  orders  of  one 
high  in  politics  and  power.  Also,  it  was  the  com 
mon  feeling,  a  feeling  no  less  cogent  for  not  being 
put  into  words,  that  had  Louie  been  of  the  wood 
from  which  champions  are  carved,  the  $380  would 
never  have  come  back.  To  refrain  from  some  in- 

93 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

tended  stick-up  upon  grave  orders  given,  might 
mean  no  more  than  prudence  and  a  right  discipline. 
But  to  send  back  money,  once  in  actual  hand  and 
when  the  risk  and  work  of  which  it  stood  the 
harvest  had  been  encountered  and  performed,  was 
to  fly  in  the  face  of  gang  ethics.  An  order  to  that 
effect,  however  eminent  its  source,  should  have 
been  met  with  stony  refusal. 

There  was  one  tale  which  should  go,  perhaps,  to 
the  right  side  of  the  reputational  ledger,  as  indicat 
ing  that  Louie  had  nerve.  Crazy  Charlie  was 
found  dead  in  the  mouth  of  a  passageway,  which 
opened  off  Mulberry  Street  near  the  Bowery.  His 
throat  had  been  cut  from  ear  to  ear.  No  one  of 
sense  supposed  Louie  did  that  throat  slashing. 
Crazy  Charlie  was  a  hop-head,  without  a  dollar  in 
his  jeans,  and  Louie  never  did  anything  except  for 
money.  He  would  no  more  have  gone  about  a 
profitless  killing,  than  he  would  have  wasted  time 
and  effort  by  fishing  in  a  bathtub. 

For  all  that,  on  the  whispered  hint  of  the  Ghost 
— who  himself  was  killed  finally  as  a  snitch — two 
plain-clothes  men  from  the  Eldridge  Street  station 
grabbed  Louie.  They  did  not  tell  him  the  reason 
of  the  pinch.  Neither  did  they  spread  it  on  the 
books.  The  police  have  a  habit  of  protecting  them 
selves  from  the  consequences  of  a  foolish  collar 
by  a  specious  system  of  concealment,  and  put  noth 
ing  on  the  blotter  until  sure. 

94 


When  searched  at  the  desk,  Louie's  guns  were 
discovered.  Also,  from  inside  his  waistcoat  was 
taken  a  seven-inch  knife,  which,  as  said  the  police 
sergeant,  might  have  slit  the  windpipe  of  Crazy 
Charlie  or  any  other  bug.  But,  as  anyone  with  eyes 
might  see,  the  knife  was  as  purely  virginal  as  when 
it  came  from  a  final  emery  wheel  in  its  far-off  Shef 
field  home.  It  had  slit  nothing. 

Still,  those  plain-clothes  dicks  did  not  despair. 
They  hoped  to  startle  Louie  into  a  confession.  With 
a  view  to  his  moral  and  physical  stampede,  they 
conveyed  Louie  in  a  closed  patrol  wagon,  at  mirk 
midnight,  to  the  morgue.  He  hadn't  been  told  what 
he  was  charged  with;  he  didn't  know  where  he. was 
going. 

The  wagon  backed  up  to  the  morgue  door.  Louie 
had  never  visited  the  morgue  before,  though  fated 
in  the  end  to  appear  there  officially.  The  plain- 
clothes  men,  one  at  each  shoulder,  steered  him  in 
side.  All  was  thick  blackness;  you  couldn't  have 
seen  your  own  nose.  Feeling  their  wordless  way, 
the  painstaking  plain-clothes  folk  manhandled  Louie 
into  position. 

Then  they  flashed  on  a  flood  of  electric  light. 

There,  within  two  feet  of  Louie,  and  squarely 
beneath  his  eyes,  lay  the  dead  Crazy  Charlie,  posed 
so  as  to  show  effectively  that  gruesome  slash  across 
the  throat.  Louie  neither  started  nor  exclaimed. 
Gazing  down  on  the  dead  Charlie,  he  searched  forth 

95 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

a  cigarette  and  turned  to  one  of  his  plain-clothes 
escorts  for  a  match. 

"Do  you  see  this?"  demanded  the  plain-clothes 
man,  slewing  round  the  dead  head  until  that  throat- 
gash  yawned  like  some  horrid  mouth. 

The  plain-clothes  man  was  wroth  to  think  he 
should  have  worked  so  hard  to  achieve  so  little. 

"Yes,"  retorted  Louie,  as  cold  as  a  wedge.  "Also, 
I'll  tell  you  bulls  another  thing.  You  think  to  rattle 
me.  Say,  for  ten  cents  I'd  sit  on  this  stiff  all  night 
an'  smoke  a  pipe." 

Those  plain-clothes  artists  gave  Louie  up.  They 
turned  him  loose  at  the  morgue  door. 

The  affair  worked  round,  and  helped  Louie  to  a 
better  position  in  the  minds  of  all  fair  men.  It  fell 
in  lucky,  too,  since  it  more  than  stood  off  a  set 
back  which  overtook  him  about  the  same  time. 
Louie  had  called  upon  the  Irish  Wop,  at  the  latter's 
poolroom  in  Fourth  Avenue.  This  emigrant  from 
Mayo  was  thin  and  slight  and  sickly,  and  Louie 
argued  that  he  might  bully  him  out  of  a  handful  of 
money.  Putting  on  a  darkest  frown,  he  demanded 
fifty  dollars,  and  intimated  that  dire  indeed  would 
be  the  consequences  of  refusal. 

"Because,"  said  Louie,  "when  I  go  out  for  any 
thing  I  get  it,  see?" 

The  Wop  coughed  timidly  and  made  a  sugges 
tion.  "Come  round  in  half  an  hour,"  said  he, 

96 


THE   APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"when  the  last  race  from  New  Orleans  is  in;  I'll 
have  the  cush  ready  for  yez." 

Louie  withdrew,  and  the  Wop  shoved  the  poker 
into  the  blazing  big-bellied  stove. 

An  hour  later,  that  New  Orleans  race  having 
been  run,  Louie  returned.  The  poker  being  by 
this  time  white-hot,  the  Wop  drew  it  forth  from 
the  stove.  There  were  no  stage  waits.  Applying 
the  poker  to  the  shrinking  rear  of  Louie,  the  Wop 
compelled  that  yearner  after  fifty  dollars  to  leap 
screechingly  from  a  second-storey  window. 

"That's  phwy  I  puts  th'  windy  up,"  explained  the 
Wop;  "I  didn't  want  that  chape  skate  to  bre-a-ak 
th'  glassh.  Indian  Louie !  Spanish  Louie !"  he 
repeated  with  measureless  contempt.  "Let  me  tell 
youse  ginks  wan  thing."  This  to  a  circle  who  had 
beheld  the  flight  of  Louie.  "'If  ever  that  bum  shows 
up  here  ag'in,  I'll  put  him  out  av  business  alto 
gether.  Does  he  think  a  two-cint  Guinea  from 
Sout'  Ameriky  can  bluff  a  full-blown  Mick  ?" 

Louie's  flight  through  the  Wop's  window,  as  had 
his  steadiness  at  the  morgue,  went  the  gossipy 
rounds.  It  didn't  injure  him  as  much  as  you  might 
think. 

"For  who,"  said  the  general  voice,  "would  face 
and  fight  a  white-hot  poker  ?" 

On  the  whole,  public  sentiment  was  inclined  to 
sustain  Louie  in  that  second-storey  jump. 

97 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

From  what  has  been  written,  it  will  not  astonish 
you  to  hear  that,  upon  the  important  matter  of 
courage,  Louie's  place  in  society  had  not  been  ab 
solutely  fixed.  Some  said  one  thing,  some  another. 
There  are  game  men  in  Gangland;  and  there  exist 
others  who  aren't  the  real  thing.  Sardinia  Frank 
believes,  with  the  Irish  Wop,  that  Louie  belonged 
in  the  latter  class.  Also,  Sardinia  Frank  is  en 
titled  to  an  opinion.  For  he  was  born  in  Mulberry 
Bend,  and  has  himself  been  tried  twice  on  charges 
of  murder. 

It  was  Sardinia  Frank,  by  the  wa}^,  who  smote 
upon  Eat-'em-up  Jack  with  that  effective  lead  pipe, 
albeit,  there  being  no  proof,  he  was  never  arrested 
for  it.  No,  he  doesn't  admit  it,  even  among  inti 
mates  and  where  such  admission  would  be  respected 
as  sacred.  But  when  joked  concerning  it,  he  has 
ever  worn  a  cheerful,  satisfied  look — like  the  pic 
tures  of  the  cat  that  ate  the  canary — and  while 
careful  not  to  accept,  was  equally  careful  not  to 
reject,  the  compliment  implied.  Moreover,  when 
the  dead  Eat-'em-up- Jack  was  picked  up,  the  lead 
pipe  used  to  break  his  skull  had  been  tucked  jocosely 
under  his  arm.  It  was  clear  to  knowing  ones  that 
irone  except  Sardinia  Frank  would  have  thought  of 
such  a  jest.  To  him  it  would  have  come  readily 
enough,  since  death  always  appealed  to  his  sense 
of  humor. 

Clad  in  a  Tuxedo  and  an  open-face  suit,  Sar- 
98 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

dinia  Frank,  at  the  time  I  questioned  him,  was  offi 
ciating  as  peace-preserver  in  the  Normandie  raths 
keller.  By  way  of  opener,  I  spoke  of  his  mission 
on  the  rathskeller  earth. 

"I'm  here  to  keep  out  everybody  I  know,"  said 
he  simply. 

There  was  a  pathetic  side  to  this  which,  in  his 
ingenuousness,  Frank  failed  wholly  to  remark. 

"About  Indian  Louie?"  I  at  last  said. 

It  was  within  an  hour  after  Louie  had  been 
killed. 

"I'll  tell  youse  about  Louie,"  returned  Frank. 
"Of  course,  he's  dead,  an'  lyin'  on  a  slab  in  th' 
morgue  right  now.  They  'phoned  me  woid  ten 
minutes  ago.  But  that  don't  make  no  difference. 
He  was  a  bluff;  he  wasn't  th'  goods.  He  went 
around  wit'  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  bulldozin'  every 
body  he  could,  an'  lettin'  on  to  be  a  hero.  An'  he's 
got  what  heroes  get." 

"Did  you  ever  get  tangled  up  with  him  ?"  I  asked. 

"Let  me  show  you,"  and  Frank  became  confi 
dential.  "This'll  give  youse  a  line.  One  time  he's 
got  two  hundred  bones.  Mollie  Squint  climbs  into 
a  yap-wagon  an'  touches  a  rube  for  it.  Louie  takes 
it,  an'  plants  it  wit'  Nigger  Mike.  That's  about  six 
months  ago.  Th'  next  night,  me  bein'  wise  to  it, 
I  chases  to  Mike  an'  says,  'Louie's  over  to  Jigger's, 
pointin'  stuss,  an'  he  wants  th'  two  hundred.'  So 
Mike  hands  me  th'  dough.  I  splits  it  five  ways  wit' 

99 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

th'  gang  who's  along,  each  of  us  gettin'  his  little 
old  bit  of  forty  dollars  apiece. 

"Louie,  when  he  finds  out  next  day,  makes  an 
awful  beef.  He  tells  everybody  he's  goin'  to  hand 
it  to  me — goin'  to  cook  me  on  sight,  see?  I  hears 
of  it,  an'  I  hunts  Louie  up  in  Jack  Sirocco's. 

"  'Say,  Louie,'  I  says,  'about  that  cookin'  me. 
Th'  bully  way  would  be  to  come  right  now  over  to 
Hoboken,  an'  bump  me  off  to-night.  I'll  go  wit' 
youse.  An'  there  won't  be  no  hang-over,  see; 
'cause  no  one  in  Joisey'll  care,  an'  no  one  in  New 
York'll  know.' 

"Do  youse  think  Louie'll  come?  Not  on  your 
necktie!  He  didn't  want  me  game — just  wanted 
to  talk,  that's  all. 

"  'Not  youse,  Frank,'  he  said ;  'I  ain't  gunnin' 
for  youse.  It's  Nigger  Mike;  he's  th'  guy  I'm 
goin'  to  croak.  He  oughtn't  to  have  let  youse  have 
th'  money.'  No,  of  course,  he  don't  go  after  Mike; 
that's  simply  his  crawl. 

"Take  it  from  me,"  Frank  concluded,  "Louie 
wasn't  th'  goods.  He'd  run  a  bluff,  but  he  never 
really  hoited  a  guy  in  his  whole  life.  As  I  says, 
he  goes  about  frownin',  an'  glarin',  an'  givin'  peo 
ple  th'  fiery  eye,  an'  t'rowin'  a  chest,  an'  lettin'  it  go 
broadcast  that  he's  a  hero.  An'  for  a  finish  he's 
got  w'at  heroes  get." 

Such  was  the  word  of  Sardinia  Frank. 

When  he  fell  with  two  bullets  through  his  brain, 
100 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

and  two  more  through  his  body,  Louie  had  $170  in 
his  pocket,  $700  in  his  shoe,  and  $3,000  in  the 
Bowery  Bank.  This  prosperity  needn't  amaze. 
There  was,  for  one  thing,  a  racket  reason  to  be 
hereinafter  set  forth.  Besides,  Pretty  Agnes  and 
Mollie  Squint  both  walked  the  streets  in  Louie's 
loved  behalf,  and  brought  him  all  in  the  way  of 
riches  that  came  to  their  lure.  Either  was  sure  for 
five  dollars  a  day,  and  Mollie  Squint,  who  could 
graft  a  little,  once  came  in  with  $800.  Both  Pretty 
Agnes  and  Mollie  Squint  most  fiercely  adored 
Louie,  and  well  did  he  know  how  to  play  one  lov 
ing  heart  against  the  other.  Some  say  that  of  the 
pair  he  preferred  Pretty  Agnes.  If  so,  he  wasn't 
fool  enough  to  let  her  find  it  out.  She  might  have 
neglected  her  business  to  bask  in  his  sweet  society. 

Besides,  when  it  came  to  that,  Louie's  heart  was 
really  given  to  a  blonde  burlesquer,  opulent  of 
charm.  This  artiste  snubbed  and  neglected  Louie 
for  the  love  of  a  stage  manager.  But  she  took 
and  spent  Louie's  money,  almost  if  not  quite  as 
fast  as  Pretty  Agnes  and  Mollie  Squint  could  bring 
it  to  him  from  the  streets. 

Louie  never  made  any  place  his  hangout  long. 
There  was  no  element  of  loyalty  in  him,  whether 
for  man  or  for  woman,  and  he  went  from  friend  to 
friend  and  gang  to  gang.  He  would  stay  nowhere, 
remain  with  no  one,  after  his  supremacy  had  been 
challenged.  And  such  hardy  natures  as  Biff  Ellison, 

101 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Jimmy  Kelly,  Big  Mike  Abrams,  Chick  Tricker  and 
Jack  Sirocco  were  bound  to  challenge  it.  They  had  a 
way,  too,  of  putting  the  acid  on  an  individual,  and 
unless  his  fighting  heart  were  purest  gold  they'd 
surely  find  it  out.  And  Louie  never  stood  the  test. 
Thus,  beginning  at  Big  Jack's  in  Chatham  Square, 
Louie  went  from  hangout  to  hangout,  mob  to  mob, 
until,  working  through  Nigger  Mike's,  the  Chat 
ham  Club  and  Sharkey's,  he  came  at  last  to  pal  in 
with  the  Humpty  Jackson  guerrillas. 

These  worthies  had  a  stamping  ground  in  a 
graveyard  between  First  and  Second  Avenue,  in  the 
block  bounded  north  and  south  by  Twelfth  and 
Thirteenth  Streets.  There  Louie  was  wont  to  meet 
such  select  company  as  Monahokky,  Nigger  Ruhl, 
Candy  Phil,  the  Lobster  Kid,  Maxie  Hahn,  and  the 
Grabber.  As  they  lolled  idly  among  the  tombstones, 
he  would  give  them  his  adventures  by  flood  and  by 
field.  Louie,  besides  being  conceited,  was  gifted 
with  an  imagination  and  liked  to  hear  himself  talk. 
Not  that  he  felt  obliged  to  accuracy  in  these  narra 
tions.  It  was  enough  that  he  made  them  thrilling, 
and  in  their  telling  shed  an  effulgent  ray  upon 
himself. 

While  he  could  entertain  with  his  stories,  Louie 
was  never  popular.  There  was  that  doubt  about  his 
courage.  Also,  he  was  too  frugal.  No  one  had 
ever  caught  the  color  of  his  money.  Save  in  the 
avaricious  instance  of  the  big  blonde  burlesquer, 

102 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

as  hungry  as  false,  he  held  by  the  selfish  theology 
that  it  is  more  blessed  to  receive  than  to  give. 

Taking  one  reason  and  another,  those  about 
Louie  at  the  finish  were  mainly  the  Humpty  Jackson 
bunch.  His  best  hangout  of  any  fashion  was  the 
Hesper  Club.  Had  Humpty  Jackson  remained  with 
his  own,  Louie  might  have  been  driven,  in  search 
of  comradeship,  to  go  still  further  afield.  Humpty 
was  no  weakling,  and  while  on  the  surface  a  whin 
ing,  wheedling,  complaining  cripple,  owned  his  vol 
canic  side,  and  had  once  shot  it  out,  gun  to  gun 
and  face  to  face,  with  no  less  a  paladin  than  Jimmy 
Kelly.  Louie  would  have  found  the  same  fault 
with  Humpty  that  he  had  found  with  those  others. 
Only  Humpty  didn't  last  long  enough  after  Louie 
joined  his  forces.  Some  robbery  came  off,  and  a 
dull  jury  held  Humpty  responsible.  With  that,  the 
judge  sent  him  up  for  a  long  term  of  years,  and 
there  he  sticks  to-day.  Humpty  took  the  journey 
crying  that  he  had  been  jobbed  by  the  police.  How 
ever  that  may  have  been,  his  going  made  it  possible 
for  Louie  to  remain  with  the  Jacksons,  and  shine 
at  those  ghoulish,  graveyard  meetings,  much  longer 
than  might  otherwise  have  been  the  case. 

While  Louie  had  removed  to  the  remote  regions 
about  Fourteenth  Street  and  Third  Avenue,  and 
was  seldom  seen  in  Chatham  Square  or  Chinatown, 
he  was  not  forgotten  in  those  latter  precincts.  Jew 
Yetta  brought  up  his  name  one  evening  in  the  Chat- 

103 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

ham  Club,  and  spoke  scornfully  of  him  in  conjunc 
tion  with  the  opulent  blonde. 

"That  doll's  makin'  a  farmer  of  Louie,"  was  the 
view  of  Jew  Yetta. 

"At  that,"  remarked  the  Dropper — for  this  was 
in  the  days  of  his  liberty  and  before  he  had  been 
put  away — "farmer  or  no  farmer,  it's  comin'  easier 
for  him  now  than  when  he  was  in  the  navy,  eatin' 
sow-belly  out  of  a  harness  cask  an'  drinkin'  bilge. 
Wat's  that  ship  he  says  he's  sailin'  in,  Nailer?" 
continued  the  Dropper.  "Ain't  it  a  tub  called 
Aidant  a?" 

"There  never  is  a  ship  in  the  navy  named  Ata- 
lanta." 

This  declaration,  delivered  with  emphasis,  ema 
nated  from  old  Jimmy,  who  had  a  place  by  himself 
in  East  Side  consideration.  Old  Jimmy  was  about 
sixty,  with  a  hardwood-finish  face  and  'possum- 
colored  hair.  He  had  been  a  river  pirate  in  the  old 
days,  and  roamed  the  midnight  waters  for  what  he 
might  pick  up.  Those  were  times  when  he  troubled 
the  police,  who  made  him  trouble  in  return.  But 
one  day  old  Jimmy  salvaged  a  rich  man's  daughter, 
who — as  though  to  make  his  fortune — had  fallen 
overboard  from  a  yacht,  and  bored  her  small  hole 
in  the  water  within  a  rod  or  two  of  Jimmy's  skiff. 
Certainly,  he  fished  her  out,  and  did  it  with  a  boat 
hook.  More ;  he  sagaciously  laid  her  willowy  form 
across  a  thwart,  to  the  end  that  the  river  water  flow 

104 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

more  easily  from  her  rosebud  mouth.  Relieved 
of  the  water,  the  rescued  beauty  thanked  Jimmy 
profusely;  and,  for  his  generous  part,  her  million 
aire  father  proceeded  to  pension  his  child's  pre 
server  for  life.  The  pension  was  twenty-five  dol 
lars  a  week.  Coming  fresh  and  fresh  with  every 
Monday,  Jimmy  gave  up  his  piracies  and  no  longer 
haunted  in  the  name  of  loot  the  nightly  reaches  of 
the  river.  Indeed,  he  became  offensively  idle  and 
honest. 

"No  sir,"  repeated  old  Jimmy;  "there  never  is  a 
ship  in  our  navy  named  Atalanta." 

"All  th'  same,"  retorted  the  dropper,  "I  lamps  a 
yacht  once  w'at's  called  Atalanta." 

"An'  who  says  No?"  demanded  old  Jimmy,  test 
ily.  "I'm  talkin'  about  th'  United  States  Navy. 
But  speakin'  of  Louie,  it  ain't  no  cinch  he's  ever 
in  th  'navy.  I'd  sooner  bet  he's  been  in  jail." 

"An'  if  he  was,"  said  Jew  Yetta,  "there  ain't  no 
one  here  who's  got  anything  on  him." 

"Wat  does  Atalanta  mean,  anyway?"  questioned 
the  Dropper,  who  didn't  like  the  talk  of  jails.  "Is 
it  a  place?" 

"Nixie,"  put  in  Slimmy,  the  erudite,  ever  ready 
to  display  his  learning.  "Atalanta's  the  name  of  a 
skirt,  who  b'longs  'way  back.  She's  some  soon  as 
a  sprinter,  too,  an'  can  run  her  one  hundred  yards 
in  better  than  ten  seconds.  Every  god  on  Olympus 
clocked  this  dame,  an'  knew  what  she  could  do." 

105 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

"Wat's  her  story?"  asked  the  Dropper. 

"It  gets  along,  d'ye  see,  where  Atalanta's  folks 
thinks  she  ought  to  get  married.  But  she  won't 
have  it;  she'd  sooner  be  a  sprinter.  With  that, 
they  crowd  her  hand;  an'  to  get  shut  of  'em,  she 
finally  tacks  it  up  on  the  bulletin  board  that  she'll 
chase  to  th'  altar  only  with  some  student  who  can 
beat  her  at  a  quarter  mile  dash.  'No  lobsters  need 
apply!'  says  she.  Also,  there's  conditions.  Under 
the  rules,  if  some  chump  calls  th'  bluff,  an'  can't 
make  good — if  she  lands  him  loses — her  papa's 
headsman  will  be  on  th'  job  with  his  axe,  an'  that 
beaten  gink'll  get  his  block  whacked  off." 

"An'  does  any  one  go  against  such  a  game?" 
queried  Jew  Yetta. 

"Sure !  A  whole  fleet  of  young  Archibalds  and 
Reginalds  went  up  ag'inst  it.  They  all  lose;  an' 
his  jiblets  wit'  th'  cleaver  chops  off  their  youthful 
beans. 

"But  the  luck  turns.  One  day  a  sure-thing  geek 
shows  up  whose  monaker  is  Hippomenes.  Hippy's 
a  fly  Indian ;  there  ain't  goin'  to  be  no  headsman  in 
his.  Hippy's  hep  to  skirts,  too,  an'  knows  where 
th'  board  is  off  their  fence.  He  organizes  with 
three  gold  apples,  see,  an'  every  time  little  Atalanta 
Shootin'  Star  goes  flashin'  by,  he  chucks  down  one 
of  'em  in  front  of  her.  She  simply  eats  it  up;  she 
can't  get  by  not  one ;  an'  she  loses  so  much  time 
grabbin'  for  'em,  Hippy  noses  in  a  winner." 

106 


THE    APACHES   OF   NEW    YORK 

"Good  boy !"  broke  forth  the  Dropper.  "An'  do 
they  hook  up?" 

"They're  married;  but  it  don't  last.  You  see  its 
Venus  who  shows  Hippy  how  to  crab  Atalanta's  act 
an'  stakes  him  to  th'  gold  apples.  An'  later,  when 
he  double-crosses  Venus,  that  goddess  changes  him 
an'  his  baby  mine  into  a  couple  of  lions." 

The  Irish  Wop  had  been  listening  impatiently. 
It  was  when  Governor  Hughes  flourished  in  Al 
bany,  and  the  race  tracks  were  being  threatened. 
The  Wop,  as  a  pool-room  keeper,  was  vastly  con 
cerned. 

"I  see,"  said  the  Wop,  appealing  directly  to  old 
Jimmy  as  the  East  Side  Nestor,  "that  la-a-ad 
Hughes  is  makin'  it  hot  for  Belmont  an'  Keene  an' 
th'  rist  av  th'  racin'  gang.  Phwat's  he  so  ha-a-ard 
on  racin'  for  ?  Do  yez  look  on  playin'  th'  ponies  as 
a  vice,  Jimmy?" 

"Well,"  responded  old  Jimmy  with  a  conserva 
tive  air,  "I  don't  know  as  I'd  call  it  a  vice  so  much 
as  a  bonehead  play." 

"They  call  it  th'  shpo-r-rt  av  kings,"  observed 
<he  Wop,  loftily. 

Old  Jimmy  snorted.  "Sport  of  kings!"  said  he. 
'Sport  of  come-ons,  rather.  Them  Sport-of-kings 
^ezebos  '11  go  on,  too,  an'  give  you  a  lot  of  guff 
about  racin'  bein'  healthy.  But  they  ain't  sayin' 
a  word  concernin'  th'  mothers  an'  youngones  liv- 
in'  in  hot  two-room  tenements,  an'  jumpin'  side- 

107 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

ways  for  grub,  while  th'  husbands  and  fathers  is 
blowin'  in  their  bank-rolls  in  th'  bettin'  ring  an' 
gettin'  healthy.  An'  th'  little  jocks,  too — mere  kids! 
I've  wondered  th'  Gerries  didn't  get  after  'em.  But 
I  suppose  th'  Gerries  know  who  to  pass  up,  an' 
who  to  pinch,  as  well  as  th'  oldest  skipper  on  th' 
Force." 

"F'r  all  that,"  contended  the  Wop,  stubbornly, 
"thim  la-a-ads  that's  mixed  up  wit'  th'  racin'  game 
is  good  fellys." 

"Good  fellows,"  repeated  old  Jimmy  with  con- 
tempt.  "I  recollect  seein'  a  picture  once,  a  picture 
of  a  girl — a  young  wife,  she  is — lyin'  with  her 
head  on  an  untouched  dinner  table — fallen  asleep, 
poor  thing!  Th'  clock  in  the  picture  is  pointin'  to 
midnight.  There  she's  been  waitin'  with  th'  din 
ner  she's  cooked  with  her  own  little  lovin'  mitts, 
for  that  souse  of  a  husband  to  come  home.  Under 
th'  picture  it  says,  'For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow !' ' 

"Somebody  'd  ought  to  have  put  a  head  on  him !" 
quoth  Jew  Yetta,  whose  sympathies  were  both  ac 
tive  and  militant. 

"Say,"  went  on  Jimmy,  "that  picture  gets  on  my 
nerves.  A  week  later  I'm  down  be  th'  old  Delmon- 
ico  joint  at  Twenty-sixth  an'  Broadway.  It's  meb- 
by  one  o'clock  in  th'  mornin'.  As  I'm  goin'  by 
th'  Twenty-sixt'  Street  door,  out  floats  a  fleet  of 
Willies,  stewed  to  the  gills,  singin'  in  honor  of  a 

108 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

dude  who's  in  th'  middle,  'For  he's  a  jolly  good 
fellow.' 

"'Who's  that  galoot?'  I  asks  th'  dub  who's 
slammin'  carriage  doors  at  the  curb.  'Is  he  a  mar 
ried  man?' 

"  'He's  married  all  right,"  says  th'  door-slammin' 
dub. 

"Wit  that  I  tears  into  him.  It's  a  good  while 
ago,  an'  I  could  slug  a  little.  Be  th'  time  th'  cop 
per  gets  there,  I've  got  that  jolly  good  fellow  look- 
in'  like  he'd  been  caught  whistlin'  Croppies  Lie 
Down  at  Fiftieth  Street  an'  Fift'  Avenoo  when  th' 
Cathedral  lets  out." 

"Well,  I'm  not  married,"  remarked  the  Wop, 
snappishly; — "I'm  not  married;  I  niver  was  mar 
ried;  an'  I  niver  will  be  married  aloive." 

"Did  youse  notice?"  remarked  the  Dropper, 
"how  they  gets  a  roar  out  of  old  Boss  Croker? 
He's  for  racin'  all  right." 

"Naturally,"said  old  Jimmy.  "Him  ownin'  race 
horses,  Croker's  for  th'  race  tracks.  He  don't  cut 
no  ice." 

"How  much  do  yez  figger  Croker  had  cleaned 
up,  Jimmy,  when  he  made  his  getaway  for  Ire 
land  ?"  asked  the  Wop,  licking  an  envious  lip. 

"Without  comin'  down  to  book-keepin',"  returned 
old  Jimmy,  carelessly,  "my  understandin'  is  that, 
be  havin'  th'  whole  wad  changed  into  thousand 

109 


THE   APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

dollar  bills,  he's  able  to  get  it  down  to  th'  dock  on 
a  dray." 

The  Grabber  came  in.  He  beckoned  Slimmy,  and 
the  two  were  at  once  immersed  in  serious  whisp 
erings. 

"What  are  youse  two  stews  chinnin'  about?'* 
called  out  the  Dropper  lazily,  from  across  the  room. 
"Be  youse  thinkin'  of  orderin'  th'  beer?" 

"It's  about  Indian  Louie,"  replied  Slimmy,  an 
grily.  "Th'  Grabber  here  says  Louie's  out  to  skin 
us." 

"Indian  Louie,"  remarked  the  Wop,  with  a  gleam 
in  his  little  gray  eye.  "That's  th'  labberick  w'at's 
goin'  to  shti-i-ick  up  me  poolroom  f'r  thim  fifty 
bones.  Anny  wan  that'd  have  annything  to  do  wit' 
a  bum  loike  him  ought  to  get  skinned." 

"W'at's  he  tryin'  to  saw  off  on  youse?"  asked 
the  Dropper. 

"This  is  th'  proposition."  It  was  the  Grabber 
now.  "Me  an'  Slimmy  here  goes  in  wit'  Louie  to 
give  that  racket  last  week  in  Tammany  Hall.  Now 
Louie's  got  th'  whole  bundle,  an'  he  won't  split 
it.  Me  an'  Slimmy's  been  t'run  down  for  six 
hundred  good  iron  dollars  apiece." 

"An5  be  yez  goin'  to  let  him  get  away  wit'  it?" 
demanded  the  Wop. 

"W'at  can  we  do?"  asked  the  Grabber,  discon 
solately. 

"It's  that  big  blonde,"  declared  Jew  Yetta  with 
110 


acrimony.  "She's  goin'  through  Louie  for  every 
dollar.  I  wonder  Mollie  Squint  an'  Pretty  Agnes 
don't  put  her  on  th'  fritz." 

The  Hesper  Club  was  in  Second  Avenue  between 
Sixth  and  Seventh  Streets.  It  was  one  o'clock  in 
the  morning  when  Indian  Louie  took  his  accus 
tomed  seat  at  the  big  table  in  the  corner. 

"How's  everybody?"  he  asked,  easily.     "I  over 
sleeps  meself,  or  I'd  been  here  hours  ago." 
.  "Wat  tires  you?"  asked  Candy  Phil.     Not  that 
he  cared,  but  merely  by  way  of  conversation. 

"It's  th'  big  feed  last  night  at  Terrace  Garden. 
I'm  two  days  trainin'  for  it,  an'  all  day  gettin'  over 
it.  Them  swell  blowouts  is  something  fierce !"  and 
Louie  assumed  a  wan  and  weary  air,  intended  to  be 
superior. 

"So  you  was  at  Terrace  Garden?"  said  Nigger 
Ruhl. 

"Was  I?  Youse  should  have  seen  me!  Patent 
leathers,  white  choker,  and  a  diamond  in  th'  middle 
of  me  three-sheet  big  enough  to  trip  a  dog." 

"There's  nothin'  in  them  dress  suits,"  protested 
Maxie  Hahn.  "I'm  ag'inst  'em;  they  ain't  dimmy- 
cratic." 

"All  th'  same,  youse  've  got  to  wear  'em  at  these 
swell  feeds,"  said  Candy  Phil.  "They'd  give  youse 
th'  gate  if  you  don't.  An'  as  for  not  bein'  dimmy- 
cratic" — Candy  Phil  had  his  jocose  side — "they 
make  it  so  you  can't  tell  th'  high-guys  from  th' 

111 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

waiters,  an'  if  that  ain't  dimmycratic  what  is?  Th' 
only  thing  I  know  ag'inst  'em  is  that  youse  can't  go 
to  th'  floor  wit'  a  guy  in  'em.  You've  got  to  cut 
out  th'  scrappin',  an'  live  up  to  the  suit,  see?" 

The  Grabber  strolled  in,  careless  and  smiling. 
Louie  fastened  him  with  eyes  of  dark  suspicion, 
while  Maxie  Hahn,  the  Lobster  Kid  and  Candy 
Phil  began  pushing  their  chairs  out  of  the  line  of 
possible  fire.  For  they  knew  of  those  monetary 
differences. 

"Not  a  chance,  sports,"  remarked  the  Grabber, 
reassuringly.  "No  one's  goin'  to  start  anything. 
Let's  take  a  drink,"  and  the  Grabber  beat  upon  the 
table  as  a  sign  of  thirst.  "I  ain't  after  no  one  here." 

"Be  youse  alludin'  to  me,  Grabber?"  asked  Louie, 
with  a  frown  like  a  great  cloud.  "I  don't  like  them 
cracks  about  startin'  somethin'." 

"Keep  your  shoit  on,"  expostulated  the  Grabber, 
clinking  down  the  change  for  the  round  of  beers; 
"keep  your  shoit  on,  Louie.  I  ain't  alludin'  at  no 
body  nor  nothin',  least  of  all  at  youse.  Besides, 
I  just  gets  a  message  for  you — only  you  don't  seem 
in  no  humor  to  receive  it." 

"Who's  it  from?"  asked  Louie. 

"It's  Laura" — Laura  was  the  opulent  blonde — 
"Mollie  Squint  an'  Pretty  Agnes  runs  up  on  her 
about  an  hour  ago  at  Twelfth  Street  an'  Second 
Avenoo,  an'  Mollie  bounces  a  brick  off  her  coco. 
A  copper  comes  along  an'  chases  Mollie  an'  Pretty 


THE   APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

Agnes.  I  gets  there  as  they're  carry  in'  Laura  into 
that  Dago's  joint  be  th'  corner.  Laura  asks  me 
if  I  sees  youse  to  tell  w'at's  happened  her;  that's 
all." 

"Was  Mollie  and  Agnes  sloughed  in?"  asked 
Louie,  whose  practical  mind  went  first  to  his  bread 
winners. 

"No,  they  faded  into  th'  next  street.  Th'  cop 
don't  want  to  pinch  'em  anyway." 

"About  Laura;  was  she  hoited  much?" 

"Ten  stiches,  an'  a  week  in  Roosevelt  Hospital; 
that's  the  best  she  can  get." 

"I  must  chase  round  an'  look  her  over,"  was 
Louie's  anxious  conclusion.  "W'at's  that  Dago 
joint  she's  at?" 

"It's  be  th'  corner,"  said  the  Grabber,  "an'  up 
stairs.  I  forgets  the  wop's  monaker."  As  Louie 
hesitated  over  these  vague  directions,  the  Grabber 
set  down  his  glass.  "Say,  to  show  there's  no  hard 
feelin',  I'll  go  wit'  youse." 

As  Louie  and  the  Grabber  disappeared  through 
the  door,  Candy  Phil  threw  up  both  hands  as  one 
astonished  to  the  verge  of  nervous  shock. 

"Well,  w'at  do  youse  think  of  that?"  he  ex 
claimed.  "I  always  figgered  Louie  had  bats  in  his 
belfry;  now  I  knows  it.  They'll  croak  him  sure!" 

Nigger  Ruhl  and  the  Lobster  Kid  arose  as 
though  to  follow.  At  this,  Candy  Phil  broke  out 
fiercely. 

113 


"Wat's  wrong  wit'  youse  stews?  Stick  where 
you  be!" 

"But  they'll  cook  Louie!"  expostulated  the  Lob 
ster  Kid. 

"It  ain't  no  skin  off  your  nose  if  they  do.  W'y 
should  youse  go  buttin'  in?" 

Louie  and  the  Grabber  were  in  Twelfth  Street, 
hurrying  towards  Second  Avenue.  Not  a  soul, 
except  themselves,  was  abroad.  The  Grabber 
walked  on  Louie's  right,  which  showed  that  either 
the  latter  was  not  the  gunplayer  he  pretended,  or 
the  word  from  Laura  had  thrown  him  off  his 
guard. 

Suddenly,  as  the  pair  passed  a  dark  hallway,  the 
Grabber's  left  arm  stole  round  Louie's  neck. 

"About  that  dough,  Louie !"  hissed  the  Grabber, 
at  the  same  time  tightening  his  left  arm. 

Louie  half  turned  to  free  himself  from  the  art 
ful  Grabber.  As  he  did  so,  the  Grabber's  ready 
right  hand  brought  his  pistol  into  action,  and  one 
bullet  and  then  another  flashed  through  Louie's 
brain.  A  slim  form  rushed  out  of  the  dark  hall 
way,  and  fired  two  bullets  into  Louie's  body.  Louie 
was  dead  before  he  struck  the  pavement. 

The  Grabber,  with  his  slim  companion,  darted 
through  the  dark  hallway,  out  a  rear  door  and  over 
a  back  fence.  Sixty  seconds  later  they  were  quietly 
walking  in  Thirteenth  Street,  examples  of  law-abid 
ing  peace. 

114 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"It  was  th'  easiest  ever,  Slimmy!"  whispered  the 
Grabber,  when  he  had  recovered  his  breath.  "I  knew 
that  stall  about  Laura  'd  fetch  him." 

"Who  was  at  th'  Hesper  Club?" 

"On'y  Candy  Phil,  th'  Lobster  Kid  an'  two  or 
three  other  blokes.  Every  one  of  'em's  a  right  guy. 
They  won't  rap." 

"Thim  la-a-ads,"  remarked  the  Wop,  judiciously, 
when  he  heard  of  Louie's  taking  off — "thim  la-a-ads 
musht  'av  lost  their  heads.  There's  six  or  seven 
hundred  bones  on  that  bum,  an'  they  niver  copped 
a  splinter!" 

The  word  came  two  ways  to  the  Central  Office. 
One  report  said  "Indian  Louie"  and  another 
"Johnny  Spanish."  Detective  O'Farrell  invaded 
Chinatown,  and  dug  up  Big  Mike  Abrams,  that  the 
doubt  might  be  removed. 

"It's  Indian  Louie,  all  right,"  said  Big  Mike,  fol 
lowing  a  moment's  silent  survey  of  the  rigid  form. 
Then,  in  a  most  unlocked  for  vein  of  sentiment: 
"They  all  get  here  at  last !" 

"That's  no  dream!"  agreed  the  morgue  attend 
ant.  "An',  say,  Mike" — he  liked  his  joke  as  well 
as  any  other — "I've  been  expectin'  you  for  some 
time." 

"Sure !"  returned  Big  Mike,  with  a  friendly  grin ; 
"I'll  come  chasin'  along,  feet  foist,  some  mornin'. 
But  don't  forget  that  while  I'm  waitin'  I'm  workin'. 
I've  sent  two  stiffs  down  here  to  youse  already,  to 

115 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

help  keep  you  goin'  till  I  comes.  Accordin'  to  th' 
chances,  however,  me  own  turn  oughtn't  to  be  so 
very  far  away." 

Big  Mike  Abram's  turn  was  just  three  weeks 
away. 

"Who  were  those  two,  Mike,  you  sent  down  here 
to  the  morgue?"  asked  O'Farrell,  carelessly. 

O'Farrell  had  a  catlike  fame  for  slyness. 

"Say,"  grinned  Big  Mike,  derisively;  "look  me 
over!  I  ain't  wearin'  no  medals,  am  I,  for  givin' 
meself  up  to  you  bulls?" 


116 


VI. 

HOW  JACKEEN  SLEW  THE  DOC 

In  person  he  was  tall,  languid,  slender,  as  neat 
as  a  cat,  and  his  sallow  face — over  which  had  set 
tled  the  opium  pallor — was  not  an  ugly  face.  Also, 
there  abode  such  weakness,  some  good,  and  no 
harm  in  him.  His  constitution  was  rickety.  In  the 
winter  he  coughed  and  invited  pneumonia ;  in  the 
summer,  when  the  sun  poured  down,  he  trembled 
on  the  brink  of  a  stroke.  But  neither  pneumonia 
nor  sunstroke  ever  quite  killed  him. 

It  was  written  that  Jackeen  would  do  that — 
Jackeen  Dalton,  alias  Brady;  and  Jackeen  did  it 
with  five  bullets  from  an  automatic^S.  Some  said 
that  opium  was  at  the  bottom  of  it;  others  laid  it 
to  love.  It  is  still  greatly  talked  over  in  what  pipe 
joints  abound  in  Mott,  Pell  and  Doyers,  not  to 
mention  the  wider  Catherine  Street,  in-  the  neigh 
borhood  of  number  Nineteen,  where  he  had  his  flat 
and  received  his  friends. 

They  called  him  the  Doc.  Twenty  years  ago  the 
Doc  studied  dentistry  with  his  father,  who  flour 
ished  reputably  as  a  tooth  surgeon  at  the  Troy  Den 
tal  Parlors  in  Roosevelt  Street.  The  father  died 

117 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

before  the  Doc  had  been  given  a  diploma;  and  the 
Doc,  having  meanwhile  picked  up  the  opium  habit, 
was  never  able  afterwards  to  see  the  use.  Why 
should  he  be  examined  or  ask  for  a  license?  What 
foolishness!  Magnanimously  waving  aside  every 
thought  of  the  sort,  he  plunged  into  the  practice 
of  his  cheerless  art  among  those  who  went  in  and 
out  of  Chinatown,  and  who  lived  precariously  by 
pocket-picking,  porch-climbing,  safe-blowing  and 
all-round  strong-arm  methods;  and,  careless  of  the 
statute  in  such  case  made  and  provided,  he  pro 
ceeded  to  file  and  drill  and  cap  and  fill  and  bridge 
and  plug  and  pull  their  aching  cuspids,  bicuspids 
and  molars,  and  all  with  as  quick  an  instinct  and  as 
deft  a  touch  as  though  his  eyes  were  sharpened  and 
his  hand  made  steady  by  the  dental  sheepskins  of 
a  dozen  colleges.  That  he  was  an  outlaw  among 
tooth-drawers  served  only  to  knit  him  more  closely 
to  the  hearts  of  his  patients — themselves  merest 
outlaws  among  men. 

The  Doc  kept  his  flat  in  Catherine  Street  as 
bright  and  burnished  as  the  captain's  cabin  of  a 
man-of-war.  There  was  no  prodigious  wealth  of 
furniture,  no  avalanche  of  ornament  to  overwhelm 
the  taste.  Aside  from  an  outfit  of  dental  tools, 
the  most  expensive  belongings  appeared  to  be  what 
lamps  and  pipes  and  kindred  paraphernalia  were 
required  in  the  smoking  of  opium. 

Those  who  visited  the  Doc  were  compelled  to  ore 
118 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

formality.  Before  he  would  open  his  door,  they 
must  push  the  bell  four  times  and  four  times  tap 
on  the  panel.  Thus  did  they  prove  their  friendly 
identity.  Lawful  dentists,  in  their  jealousy,  had, 
had  the  Doc  arrested  and  fined,  from  time  to  time, 
for  intromitting  with  the  teeth  of  his  fellow  worms 
without  a  license.  Hence  that  precautionary  quar 
tet  of  rings,  followed  by  the  quartet  of  taps,  indic 
ative  that  a  friend  and  not  a  foe  was  at  his  gate. 

The  Doc  had  many  callers  who  came  to  smoke 
opium.  For  these  he  did  divers  kindly  offices, 
mostly  in  the  letter-writing  line.  As  they  reclined 
and  smoked,  they  dictated  while  the  Doc  tran 
scribed,  and  many  and  weird  were  the  epistles  from 
Nineteen  Catherine  Street  which  found  their  way 
into  the  mails.  For  this  service,  as  for  his  opium 
and  dentistry,  the  Doc's  callers  never  failed  to 
press  upon  him  an  honorarium.  And  so  he  lived. 

Love,  that  flowerlike  sentiment  for  which — as 
some  jurist  once  remarked  of  justice — all  places  are 
palaces,  all  seasons  summer,  is  not  incompatible 
with  either  dentistry  or  opium.  The  Doc  had  a 
sweetheart  named  Lulu.  Lulu  was  very  beautiful 
and  very  jealous.  Also,  she  was  broadly  popular. 
All  Chinatown  made  songs  to  the  deep  glories  of 
her  eyes,  which  were  supposed  to  have  excited  the 
defeated  envy  of  many  stars.  The  Doc,  in  what 
odd  hours  he  could  snatch  from  tooth-drawing  and 
opium-smoking,  worshipped  at  the  shrine  of  Lulu; 

119 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

and  Lulu  was  wrapped  up  in  the  Doc.  Number 
Nineteen  Catherine  Street  served  as  their  Garden 
of  Eden. 

Now  it  is  among  the  many  defects  of  opium  that 
it  renders  migratory  the  fancy.  An  ebon  evidence 
of  this  was  to  be  given  at  number  Nineteen.  The 
{  love  of  the  Doc  became,  as  it  were,  pipe-deflected, 
and  one  day  left  Lulu,  and,  after  a  deal  of  fond 
circling,  settled  like  some  errant  dove  upon  a  rival 
belle  called  May. 

Likewise,  there  was  a  dangerous  side  to  this  dul 
cet,  new  situation.  The  enchanting  May,  when  the 
Doc  chose  her  for  his  goddess,  vice  Lulu  thrown 
down,  could  not  be  described  as  altogether  disen 
gaged.  Was  she  not  also  the  goddess  of  Jackeen? 
Had  not  that  earnest  safe-robber  laid  his  heart  at 
her  feet? 

Moreover,  there  were  reasons  even  more  sub 
stantial.  The  gentle  May  was  in  her  way  a  bread 
winner.  When  the  fortunes  of  Jackeen  were  low, 
she  became  their  mutual  meal-ticket.  May  was  the 
most  expert  shoplifter  in  all  of  broad  New  York. 
If  not  upon  heart  arguments,  then  upon  arguments 
of  the  pocket,  not  to  say  stomach,  Jackeen  might 
be  expected  to  fiercely  resent  any  effort  to  win  her 
love  away. 
Jackeen  ? 

Not  much  is  to  be  told  by  an  appearance,  al 
though  physiognomists  have  sung  otherwise.     The 

120 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

egg  of  the  eagle  is  less  impressive  than  the  egg  of 
the  goose.  And  yet  it  hotly  houses  in  its  heart  an 
eagle.  The  egg  of  the  nightingale  shows  but 
meanly  side  by  side  with  the  egg  of  the  crow.  And. 
yet  it  hides  within  its  modest  bosom  the  limpid: 
music  of  the  moon. 

So  it  is  with  men. 

Jackeen  was  not  an  imposing  personality.  But 
neither  is  the  tarantula.  He  was  five  feet  and  an 
inch  in  stunted  stature,  and  weighed  a  mean  shadow 
under  one  hundred  and  ten  pounds.  Like  the  Doc 
• — who  had  stolen  his  love  away — Jackeen's  hollow 
cheeks  were  of  that  pasty  gray  which  speaks  of 
opium.  Also,  from  opium,  the  pupils  of  his  ver 
min  eyes  had  become  as  the  points  of  two  dull  pins. 
Shrivelled,  degenerate,  a  tattered  rag  of  humanity, 
Jackeen  was  none  the  less  a  perilous  spirit,  and  so 
the  Doc — too  late — would  learn. 

From  that  Eden  at  Nineteen  Catherine  Street, 
the  fair  Lulu  had  been  put  into  the  street.  This 
was  to  make  pleasant  room  for  the  visits  of  the 
fairer  May.  Jackeen  was  untroubled,  knowing 
nothing  about  it.  He  was  for  the  moment  too 
wholly  engaged,  being  in  the  throes  of  a  campaign 
against  the  Savoy  theatre  safe,  from  which  strong 
box  he  looked  forward  to  a  harvest  of  thousands. 

The  desolate  Lulu  went  everywhere  seeking 
Jackeen,  to  tell  him  of  his  wrongs.  Her  search  was 
vain ;  those  plans  touching  the  Savoy  safe  had  with- 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

drawn  him  from  his  accustomed  haunts.  One 
night,  however,  the  safe  was  blown  and  plundered. 
Alas  and  alack!  Jackeen's  share,  from  those  hoped- 
for  thousands,  dwindled  to  a  paltry  sixty  dollars — 
not  enough  for  a  single  spree! 

In  his  resentment,  Jackeen,  with  the  aid  of  a 
"bevy  of  friends,  hastily  stuck-up  a  wayfarer, 
whom  he  met  in  Division  Street.  The  wayfarer's 
pockets  proved  empty.  It  was  even  more  of  a 
waterhaul  than  had  been  the  Savoy  safe.  The 
double  disappointment  turned  Jackeen's  mood  to 
gall  and  it  was  while  his  humor  was  thus  bilious 
that  he  one  day  walked  into  the  Chatham  Club. 

There  was  a  distinguished  company  gathered  at 
the  Chatham  Club.  Nannie  Miller,  Blinky  the  Lob- 
bygow,  Dago  Angelo,  Roxie,  Jimida,  Johnny  Rice, 
Stagger,  Jimmy  Foy,  and  St.  Louis  Bill — all  were 
there.  And  these  were  but  a  handful  of  what  high 
examples  sat  about  the  Chatham  Club,  and  with 
calls  for  beer,  and  still  more  beer,  kept  Nigger  Mike 
and  his  assistants  on  the  joyful  jump. 

When  Jackeen  came  in,  Mike  greeted  him 
warmly,  and  placed  a  chair  next  to  that  of  Johnny 
Rice.  Conversation  broke  out  concerning  the  dead 
and  departed  Kid  Twist.  While  Twist  was  an 
Eastman  and  an  enemy  of  Roxie — himself  of  the 
Five  Points — the  latter  was  no  less  moved  to  speak 
in  highest  terms  of  him.  He  defended  this  softness 
by  remarking: 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

"Twist's  dead,  see!  An'  once  a  guy's  been  put 
to  bed  wit'  a  shovel,  if  youse  can't  speak  well  of 
him  youse  had  better  can  gabbin'  about  him  alto 
gether.  Them's  my  sentiments." 

Dago  Angelo,  who  had  been  a  friend  of  the 
vanished  Twist,  applauded  this,  and  ordered  beer. 

Twist — according  to  the  veracious  Roxie — had 
not  been  wanting  in  brilliancy  as  a  Captain  of  In 
dustry.  He  had  showed  himself  ingenious  when 
he  took  his  poolroom  into  the  Hatmakers'  Union, 
as  a  safeguard  against  raids  by  the  police. 

Upon  another  occasion,  strictly  commercial — so 
said  Roxie — Twist  had  displayed  a  generalship 
which  would  have  glorified  a  Rockefeller.  Baby 
Flax,  named  for  the  soft  innocuousness  of  his 
countenance,  kept  a  grogshop  in  Houston  Street. 
One  quiet  afternoon  Twist  abruptly  broke  that 
cherubic  publican's  windows,  mirrors,  glasses, 
bottles. 

Lighting  a  cigar,  Twist  stood  in  the  midst  of  that 
ruin  undismayed. 

"What's  up?"  demanded  the  policeman,  who 
came  hot-foot  to  the  scene. 

"Well,"  vouchsafed  Twist,  between  puffs,  "there's 
a  party  chases  in,  smashes  things,  an'  then  beats  it 
up  the  street  wit'out  sayin'  a  woid." 

The  policeman  looked  at  Baby  Flax. 

"It's  straight,"  chattered  that  ill-used  proprietor, 
who,  with  the  dangerous  eye  of  Twist  upon  him, 

123 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

wouldn't  have  told  the  truth  for  gold  and  precious 
stones. 

"What  started  youse,  Twist  ?"  asked  a  friend. 

"It's  this  way,"  explained  Twist.  "I'm  intro- 
ducin'  a  celery  bitters — because  there's  cush  in  it. 
I  goes  into  Baby  Flax's  an'  asks  him  to  buy.  He 
hands  me  out  a  'No!'  So  I  ups  an'  puts  his  joint 
on  the  bum.  After  this,  when  I  come  into  a  dump, 
they'll  buy  me  bitters,  see!  Sure,  I  cops  an  order 
for  two  cases  from  Flax  before  I  leaves." 

Leaving  Twist  to  sleep  in  peace,  and  by  way 
of  turning  the  laugh  on  that  gentleman,  Roxie  re 
lated  an  adventure  with  Nigger  Mike.  It  was 
when  that  sub-chief  of  the  Eastmans  kept  at  num 
ber  Twelve  Pell,  by  word  of  the  vivacious  Roxie, 
he,  with  certain  roysterers  belonging  to  the  Five 
Points,  had  gone  to  Mike's  to  drink  beer.  They 
were  the  foe.  But  no  less  he  served  them,  as  he 
was  doing  now,  for  such  was  and  is  the  bland  eti 
quette  of  the  gangs. 

One  o'clock  struck,  and  Mike  locked  his  door. 
Key  turned,  the  beer  flowed  on  unchecked. 

At  half  after  one,  when  Mike  himself  was  a 
law-breaker  under  the  excise  statute  by  full  thirty 
criminal  minutes,  Roxie  with  his  Five  Points  merry 
makers  arose,  beat  up  Mike  and  his  few  retainers, 
skinned  the  damper  for  fifty  bones,  and  departed 
singing  songs  of  victory. 

Mike  was  powerless. 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

As  was  well  said  by  Roxie  :  "Wat  could  he  do  ? 
If  he  makes  a  roar  to  th'  cops  for  us  puttin'  his 
joint  in  th'  air,  we'd  have  whipped  one  over  on 
him  for  bein'  open  after  hours." 

Mike  laughed  with  the  rest  at  Roxie's  reminis 
cence.  It  was  of  another  day. 

"Wat's  th'  matter  wit'  your  mouth,  Mike?" 
asked  St.  Louis  Bill,  for  there  was  a  lisping  queer- 
ness,  not  only  about  Mike's  talk,  but  about  his 
laugh. 

Nigger  Mike  proceeded  to  lay  bare  the  causes  of 
that  queerness.  While  engaged  in  a  joint  debate — • 
years  ago,  it  was — with  a  gentleman  given  as  much 
to  sudden  petulances  as  to  positive  views,  he  had  lost 
three  of  his  teeth.  Their  place  had  been  artifically 
but  not  artistically  supplied. 

"An'  lately  they've  been  feelin'  funny,"  explained 
Mike,  alluding  to  the  supplemental  teeth,  "an'  I 
toins  'em  over  to  th'  Doc  to  fix.  That  guy  who 
made  'em  for  me  foist  must  have  been  a  bum  den 
tist.  An'  at  that,  w'at  do  you  t'ink  he  charges? 
I'm  a  Dutchman  if  he  don't  lash  me  to  th'  mast  for 
forty  bucks!  He  says  th'  gold  plate  is  wort' 
twenty." 

"Well,  Mike,"  said  Nannie  Miller,  who'd  been 
listening,  "I  don't  want  to  make  you  sore,  but  on 
the  level  you  talk  like  your  mouth  is  full  of  mush. 
I'd  make  th'  Doc  come  through  wit'  'em  as  soon 
as  I  could." 

125 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"He  says  he'll  bring  'em  in  to-morry,"  returned 
Mike. 

"It's  ten  to  one  you  don't  see  'em  for  a  week," 
declared  the  pessimistic  St.  Louis  Bill.  "Youse 
can't  tell  nothin'  about  them  hop-heads.  They  say 
'to-morry'  when  they  mean  next  year." 

St.  Louis  Bill,  being  virtuously  superior  to  opium, 
never  lost  a  chance  to  speak  scornfully  of  those  who 
couldn't  make  that  boast. 

Mike,  at  the  discouraging  view  expressed,  became 
doleful.  "Say,"  he  observed,  "I'd  look  like  a 
sucker,  wouldn't  I,  if  anything  happens  th'  Doc, 
an'  I  don't  get  'em?" 

St.  Louis  Bill  assured  Mike  that  he  would  indeed 
look  like  a  sucker,  and  re-declared  his  conviction 
— based  upon  certain  occult'  creepings  and  crawl- 
ings  in  his  bones — that  Mike  had  seen  the  last  of 
those  teeth. 

"Take  my  steer,"  said  St.  Louis  Bill  in  conclu 
sion;  "treat  them  teeth  you  gives  th'  Doc  as  a 
dead  issue,  an'  go  get  measured  for  some  more. 
Twenty  dollars  wort'  of  gold,  you  says !  It  ain't  no 
cinch  but  the  Doc's  hocked  'em  for  hop." 

"Nothin'  to  that!"  returned  Mike,  decisively. 
"Th'  Doc's  a  square  guy.  Them  teeth  is  all  safe 
enough.  Only,  as  you  says,  bein'  he  hits  the  pipe, 
he  may  be  slow  about  chasin'  in  wit'  'em." 

While  Nigger  Mike  and  his  guests  are  in  talk, 
run  your  eye  over  the  scene.  Those  citizens  of 

126 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

Gangland  assembled  about  the  Chatham  Club  tables 
would  have  made  a  study,  and  mayhap  a  chapter, 
for  Lombroso.  Speaking  generally,  they  are  a 
stunted  litter,  these  gangmen,  and  seldom  stand 
taller  than  five  feet  four.  Their  weight  wouldn't 
average  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds.  They  are 
apt  to  run  from  the  onslaught  of  an  outsider.  This 
is  not  perhaps  from  cowardice ;  but  they  dislike 
exertion,  even  the  exertion  of  fighting,  and  unless 
it  be  to  gain  money  or  spoil,  or  a  point  of  honor  is 
involved — as  in  their  duels  and  gang  wars — they 
back  away  from  trouble.  In  their  gang  battles,  or 
when  fighting  the  police,  their  strategy  is  to  lie 
flat  on  the  ground  and  shoot.  Thus  they  save 
themselves  a  clubbing,  and  the  chances  from  hosr 
tile  lead  are  reduced. 

To  be  sure  there  are  exceptions.  Such  as  Chick 
Tricker,  Ike  the  Blood,  Big  Mike  Abrams,  Jack 
Sirocco,  the  Dropper,  and  the  redoubtable  Jimmy 
Kelly  never  fly  and  always  fight.  No  one  ever  saw 
their  backs. 

You  are  inclined  to  doubt  the  bloody  character  of 
those  gang  battles.  Why  doesn't  one  hear  of  them? 
— you  ask.  Because  the  police  conceal  as  much  as 
may  be  all  word  and  all  sign  of  them.  For  the  pub 
lic  to  know  might  get  the  police  criticized,  and  they 
are  granted  enough  of  that  without  inviting  it 
through  any  foolish  frankness.  The  hospitals, 
however,  will  tell  you  of  a  weekly  average  of  fifty 

127 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

patients,  suffering-  from  knife  or  gun-shot  wounds, 
not  to  name  fractures  born  of  bottles,  bricks  and 
blackjacks.  A  bottle  judiciously  wielded,  or  a  beer 
stein  prudently  broken  in  advance  to  assure  a  jagged 
edge,  is  no  mean  weapon  where  warriors  are  many 
and  the  fields  of  battle  close. 

While  Roxie  rattled  on,  and  the  others  gave  in 
terested  ear,  Jackeen  was  commenting  in  discour 
aged  whispers  to  Johnny  Rice  on  those  twin  set 
backs  of  the  Division  Street  stick-up  and  the  Savoy 
safe. 

"It  looks  like  nobody's  got  any  dough,"  replied 
Rice,  in  a  spirit  of  sympathy.  "Take  me  own  self. 
I  ain't  made  a  touch  youse  could  call  a  touch,  for  a 
mont'  of  Sundays.  Me  rag,  Josie,  an'  I  was  chin- 
nin'  about  it  on'y  last  night,  an'  Josie  herself  says 
she  never  sees  th'  town  so  dead." 

"It's  somethin'  fierce!"  returned  Jackeen,  mood- 
ily. 

More  beer,  and  a  moment  of  silence. 

"Wat's  you'  goil  May  doin'  ?"  asked  Rice. 

"She's  graftin'  a  little,"  responded  Jackeen;  "but 
w'at  wit'  th'  stores  full  of  private  dicks  a  booster 
can't  do  much." 

"Well,  you  can  bet  May  ought  to  know!"  re 
turned  Rice.  "As  a  derrick,  she'  got  the  Darby  Kid 
an'  the  best  of  'em  beat  four  ways  from  th'  jack. 
She  could  bring  home  th'  bacon,  if  any  of  them 
hoisrer.e  could." 

128 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Then  appeared  Lulu  the  houseless — Lulu,  the 
forlorn  and  outcast  Eve  of  that  Catherine  Street 
Eden! 

Lulu  stood  a  polite  moment  behind  the  chair  of 
Jackeen.  At  a  lull  in  the  talk,  she  whispered  a  word 
in  his  ear.  He  looked  up,  nodded,  and  then  fol 
lowed  her  out  into  Doyers  Street. 

"It's  this  way,"  said  Lulu.  "May's  copped  th' 
Doc  from  me,  see!  An'  she's  givin'  you  the  cross, 
Jackeen.  You  ought  to  hand  her  out  a  good  beatin'. 
She's  over  hittin'  the  pipe  wit'  th'  Doc  right  now." 

"G'wan!"  came  jealously  from  Jackeen. 

"Honest!  You  come  wit'  me  to  number  Nine 
teen,  an'  I'll  show  youse." 

Jackeen  paused  as  though  weighing  the  pros  and 
cons. 

"Let  me  go  get  Ricey,"  he  said  at  last.  "He's 
got  a  good  nut,  an'  I'll  put  th'  play  up  to  him." 

"All  right,"  responded  Lulu,  impatient  in  her 
desolation;  "but  get  a  move  on!  I've  wised  you; 
an'  now,  if  you're  any  good  at  all,  you'll  take  May 
out  of  number  Nineteen  be  th'  mop.  Wat  license 
has  she,  or  any  other  skirt  for  that  matter,  got  to 
do  me  out  of  me  Doc?" 

The  last  ended  in  a  howl. 

Leaving  Lulu  in  the  midst  of  her  complaints, 
Jackeen  wheeled  back  into  the  Chatham  Club  for 
a  word  with  Rice.  Even  during  his  absence,  a 
change  had  come  over  the  company.  He  found 

120 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Rice,  St.  Louis  Bill  and  Nannie  Miller,  holding 
anxious  confab  with  a  ratfaced  person  who  had  just 
come  in. 

"See  here,  Jackeen,"  said  St.  Louis  Bill  in  an 
excited  whisper,  "there's  been  a  rap  about  that 
Savoy  safe  trick,  an'  th'  bulls  are  right  now  lookin' 
for  th'  whole  mob.  They  say  it's  us,  too,  who  put 
that  rube  in  the  air  over  in  Division  Street." 

"An'  th'  question  is,"  broke  in  Nannie  Miller, 
who  was  quick  to  act,  "do  we  stand  pat,  or  do  we 
do  a  lammister?" 

"There's  on'y  one  answer  to  that,"  said  St.  Louis 
Bill.  "For  my  end  of  it  I'm  goin'  to  lamm." 

Jackeen  had  May  and  his  heart  troubles  upon  the 
back  of  his  regard.  Still  he  heard;  and  he  arrived 
at  a  decision.  He  would  run — yes;  for  flight  was 
preferable  to  four  stone  walls.  But  he  must  have 
revenge — revenge  upon  the  Doc  and  May. 

"Wit'  th'  bulls  after  me,  an'  me  away,  it  'ud 
be  comin*  too  soft  for  'em,"  thought  Jackeen. 

"Wat  do  youse  say?"  asked  St.  Louis  Bill,  who 
was  getting  nervous. 

"How  did  youse  get  the  woid?"  demanded  Jack 
een,  turning  upon  Ratface.  It  was  he  who  had 
brought  the  warning. 

"I'm  a  stool  for  one  of  the  bulls,"  replied  Rat 
face,  "an'  it's  him  tells  me  you  blokes  is  wanted, 
see!" 

"So  you're  stoolin'  for  a  Central  Office  cop?" 
130 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Jackeen's  manner  was  fraught  with  suspicion. 
"How  do  we  know  you're  givin'  us  th'  correct 
dope?" 

"Miller  knows  me,"  returned  Ratface,  "an'  so 
does  Bill.  They'll  tell  youse  I'm  a  right  guy.  That 
stool  thing  is  only  a  stall.  I  gets  more  out  of  the 
bull  than  he  gets  out  of  me.  Sure;  I  give  him  a 
dead  one  now  an'  then,  just  be  way  of  puttin'  in  a 
prop  for  meself.  But  not  youse; — w'en  it's  any 
of  me  friends  I  puts  'em  hep,  see!" 

"Do  you  sign  for  this  duck?"  demanded  Jackeen 
of  St.  Louis  Bill.  "He's  a  new  one  on  me." 

"Take  it  from  me,  he's  all  right,"  said  St.  Louis 
Bill,  decisively.  "Why,  you  ought  to  know  him, 
Jackeen.  He  joined  out  wit'  that  mob  of  gons 
Goldie  Louie  took  to  Syracuse  last  fall.  He's  no 
farmer,  neither;  Ricey  there  ain't  got  nothin'  oif 
him  as  a  tool." 

This  endorsement  of  Ratface  settled  all  doubt. 
Jackeen's  mind  was  made  up.  Addressing  the 
others,  he  said : 

"Fade's  the  woid!  I'll  meet  youse  over  in  Ho- 
boken  to-night  at  Beansey's.  Better  make  th'  ferry 
one  at  a  time." 

"Wat  do  youse  want  to  wait  till  night  for?" 
asked  Nannie  Miller.  "Th'  foist  t'ing  you  know 
you'll  get  th'  collar." 

"I'm  goin'  to  take  the,  chance,  though,"  retorted 
Jackeen.  "It's  some  private  business  of  me  own. 

131 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

An'  say" — looking  at  Rice — "I  want  a  pal.     Will 
youse  stick,  Ricey?" 

"Sure,  Mike!"  said  Rice,  who  had  nerve  and 
knew  how  to  be  loyal. 

Thus  it  was  adjusted.  Ratface  went  his  way,  to 
exercise  his  gifts  of  mendacity  upon  his  Central 
Office  principal,  while  the  others  scattered — all  save 
Jackeen  and  Rice. 

Jackeen  gave  his  faithful  friend  the  story  of  his 
wrongs. 

"I  wouldn't  have  thought  it  of  the  Doc,"  was  the 
pensive  comment  of  Rice.  He  had  exalted  the  Doc, 
because  of  his  book  learning,  and  groaned  to  see 
his  idol  fall.  "No,  I  wouldn't  have  guessed  it  of 
him!  Of  course,  it's  different  wit'  a  doll.  They'd 
double-cross  their  own  mothers." 

Over  in  Catherine  Street  at  number  Nineteen  the 
Doc  was  teaching  May  how  to  cook  opium.  The 
result  fell  below  the  Doc's  elevated  notions. 

"You  aren't  to  be  compared  with  Lulu,"  he  com- 
p.ained,  as  he  trimmed  the  peanut-oil  lamp.  "All 
Chinatown  couldn't  show  Lulu's  equal  for  cooking 
hop.  She  had  a  genius  for  it." 

The  Doc  took  the  needle  from  May,  and  cooked 
for  himself.  May  looked  discouraged  and  hurt. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  the  Doc,  dreamily,  replying 
to  the  look  of  injury.  "You'll  get  it  right  in  time, 
dear.  Only,  of  course,  you'll  never  quite  equal 
Lulu;  that  would  be  impossible." 

132 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

The  Doc  twirled  the  little  ball  of  opium  in  the 
flame  of  the  lamp,  watching  the  color  as  it  changed. 
May  looked  on  as  upon  the  labors  of  a  master. 

"I'll  smoke  a  couple  of  pipes,"  vouchsafed  the 
Doc;  "then  I  must  get  to  work  on  Nigger  Mike's 
teeth.  Mike's  a  good  fellow ;  they're  all  good 
fellows  over  at  the  Chatham  Club,"  and  the  Doc 
sank  back  upon  the  pallet. 

There  was  the  sound  of  someone  in  the  hall. 
Then  came  those  calmative  four  rings  and  four 
taps. 

"That's  Mike  now,"  said  the  Doc,  his  eyes  half 
closed.  "Let  him  in;  I  suppose  he's  come  for  his 
teeth.  I'll  have  to  give  him  a  stand-off.  Mike 
ought  to  have  two  sets  of  teeth.  Then  he  could 
wear  the  one  while  I'm  fixing  the  other.  It's  a 
good  idea;  I'll  tell  him." 

May,  warned  by  some  instinct,  opened  the  door 
but  a  timorous  inch.  What  she  saw  did  not  inspire 
confidence,  and  she  tried  with  all  her  little  strength 
to  close  and  bolt  it. 

Too  late! 

The  door  was  flung  inward,  and  Jackeen,  fol 
lowed  by  Rice,  entered  the  room.  They  paid  no 
heed  to  the  opium  fumes ;  almost  stifling  they  were, 
but  Jackeen  and  Rice  had  long  been  used  to  them. 

May  gazed  at  Jackeen  like  one  planet-struck. 
The  Doc,  moveless  on  the  pallet,  hardly  raised  his 
opium-weighted  lids. 

133 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"This  is  a  fine  game  I'm  gettin' !" 

Jackeen  sneered  out  the  words.  The  Doc  pulled 
tranquilly  at  his  pipe;  while  May  stood  voiceless, 
staring  with  scared  eyes. 

"I'd  ought  to  peg  a  bullet  into  you,"  continued 
Jackeen,  addressing  May. 

He  had  drawn  his  heavy  gun.  May  stood  as  if 
the  sight  of  the  weapon  had  frozen  her.  Jackeen 
brought  it  down  on  her  temple.  The  Doc  never 
moved.  Peace — the  peace  of  the  poppy — was  on  his 
brow  and  in  his  heart.  May  fell  to  the  floor,  her 
face  a-reek  with  blood. 

"Now  you've  got  yours  !"said  Jackeen. 

May  struggled  unsteadily  to  her  feet,  and  began 
groping  for  the  door. 

"That  ought  to  do  youse  till  I  get  back,"  was 
Jackeen' s  good-by.  "You'll  need  a  few  stitches  for 
that." 

Unruffled,  untroubled,  the  Doc  drew  blandly  at 
the  mouthpiece  of  the  pipe. 

Jackeen  surveyed  him. 

"Go  on!"  cried  Rice;  "hand  it  to  him,  if  you're 
goin'  to!" 

Rice  was  becoming  fretted.  He  hadn't  Jackeen's 
sustaining  interest.  Besides,  he  was  thinking  of  that 
word  from  the  Central  Office,  and  how  much  safer 
he  would  be  with  Beansey,  on  the  Hoboken  side  of 
the  Hudson. 

134 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

Jackeen  took  a  step  nearer.  The  Doc  smiled,  eyes 
just  showing-  through  the  dreamy  lids. 

"Turn  it  loose!"  cried  Rice. 

The  gun  exploded  five  times,  and  five  bullets 
ploughed  their  way  into  the  Doc's  body. 

Not  a  cry,  not  a  movement!  The  bland,  pleased 
smile  never  left  the  sallow  face.  With  his  mouth 
to  the  pipestem,  the  Doc  dreamed  on. 

In  the  street,  Jackeen  and  Rice  passed  Lulu.  As 
they  brushed  by  her,  Rice  fell  back  a  pace  and 
whispered : 

"He  croaked  th'  Doc." 

Lulu  gave  a  gulping  cry  and  hurried  on. 

"Is  that  you,  Lulu?"  asked  the  Doc,  his  drug- 
uplifted  soul  untouched,  untroubled  by  what  had 
passed,  and  what  would  come.  Still,  he  must  have 
dimly  known;  for  his  next  words,  softly  spoken, 
were:  "I'm  sorry  about  Mike's  teeth!  Cook  me 
a  pill,  dear;  I  want  one  last  good  smoke." 


135 


VII. 

LEONI  THE  TROUBLE  MAKER 

It  was  a  perfect  day  for  a  funeral.  The  thin 
October  air  had  in  it  a  half-chill,  like  the  cutting1 
edge  of  the  coming  winter,  still  six  weeks  away. 
The  leaves,  crisp  and  brown  from  early  frosts, 
seemed  to  rustle  approval  of  the  mournful  com 
pleteness  of  things. 

Florists'  shops  had  been  ransacked,  greenhouses 
laid  waste,  the  leading  carriages  were  moving- 
jungles  of  blossoms.  It  was  magnificent,  and  as  the 
procession  wound  its  slow  way  into  Calvary,  the 
heart  of  the  undertaker  swelled  with  pride.  Not 
that  he  was  justified;  the  glory  was  the  glory  of 
Paper-Box  Johnny,  who  stood  back  of  all  this 
gloomy  splendor  with  his  purse. 

"Remember,"  was  Paper-Box's  word  to  the  un 
dertaker,  "I'm  no  piker,  an'  neither  was  Phil;  so 
wade  in  wit'  th'  bridle  off,  an'  make  th'  spiel  same 
as  if  you  was  bury  in'  yourself." 

Thus  exhorted,  and  knowing  the  solvency  of 
Paper-Box,  the  undertaker  had  no  more  than  broken 
even  with  his  responsibilities. 

Later,  Paper-Box  became  smitten  of  concern  be- 

136 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

cause  he  hadn't  thought  to  hire  a  brass  band.  A 
brass  band,  he  argued,  breathing  Chopin's  Funeral 
March,  would  have  given  the  business  a  last  artis 
tic  touch. 

"I'd  ought  to  have  me  nut  caved  in  for  forget- 
tin'  it,"  he  declared;  "but  Phil  bein'  croaked  like 
he  was,  got  me  rattled.  I'm  all  in  th'  air  right  now ! 
Me  head  won't  be  on  straight  ag'in  for  a  mont'." 

In  the  face  of  Paper-Box's  self-condemnation, 
ones  expert  in  those  sorrowful  matters  of  crape  and 
immortelles,  averred  that  the  funeral  was  a  credit 
to  Casey,  and  regrets  were  expressed  that  the  bullet 
in  that  dead  hero's  brain  forbade  his  sitting  up  in 
the  hearse  and  enjoying  what  was  being  done  in 
his  honor. 

As  the  first  shovelful  of  earth  awoke  the  hollow 
responses  of  the  coffin,  there  occurred  what  story 
writers  are  fond  of  describing  as  a  dramatic  in 
cident.  As  though  the  hollow  coffin-note  had  been 
the  dead  voice  of  Casey  calling,  Dago  Frankie 
knelt  at  the  edge  of  the  grave.  Lifting  his  hands 
to  heaven,  he  vowed  to  shed  without  mercy  the  blood 
of  Goldie  Louie  and  Brother  Bill  Orr,  on  sight. 
The  vow  was  well  received  by  the  uncovered  ring 
of  mourners,  and  no  one  doubted  but  Casey's 
eternal  slumbers  would  be  the  sounder  for  it. 

In  the  beginning,  she  went  by  the  name  of 
Leoni ;  the  same  being  subsequently  lengthened, 
for  good  and  sufficient  reasons,  to  Leoni  the 

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THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Trouble  Maker.  As  against  this,  however,  her 
monaker,  with  the  addition,  "Badger,"  as  written 
upon  her  picture — gallery  number  7409 — to  be 
found  in  that  interesting  art  collection  maintained 
by  the  police,  was  given  as  Mabel  Grey. 

Leoni — according  to  Detective  Biddinger  of  that 
city's  Central  Office — was  born  in  Chicago,  upon  a 
spot  not  distant  from  the  banks  of  the  classic  Drain 
age  Canal.  She  came  to  New  York,  and  began 
attracting  police  attention  about  eight  years  ago. 
In  those  days,  radiant  as  a  star,  face  of  innocent 
beauty,  her  affections  were  given  to  an  eminent  pick 
pocket  known  and  dreaded  as  Crazy  Barry,  and  it 
was  the  dance  she  led  that  bird-headed  person's 
unsettled  destinies  which  won  her  the  nom  dc  cocur 
of  Trouble  Maker. 

It  was  unfortunate,  perhaps,  since  it  led  to  many 
grievous  complications,  that  Leoni's  love  lacked 
every  quality  of  the  permanent.  Hot,  fierce,  it  re 
sembled  in  its  intensity  a  fire  in  a  lumber  yard.  Al 
so,  like  a  fire  in  a  lumber  yard,  it  soon  burned  it 
self  out.  Her  heart  was  as  the  heart  of  a  wild 
goose,  and  wondrous  migratory. 

Having  loved  Crazy  Barry  for  a  space,  Leoni 
turned  cool,  then  cold,  then  fell  away  from  him 
altogether.  At  this,  Crazy  Barry,  himself  a  volcano 
of  sensibility,  with  none  of  Leoni's  saving  genius  to 
grow  cold,  waxed  wroth  and  chafed. 

While  in  this  mixed  and  storm-tossed  humor,  he 
138 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

came  upon  Leoni  in  the  company  of  a  fello\v 
gonoph  known  as  McTaffe.  In  testimony  of  what 
hell-pangs  were  tearing  at  his  soul,  Crazy  Barry 
fell  upon  McTaffe,  and  cut  him  into  red  ribbons 
with  a  knife.  He  would  have  cut  his  throat,  and 
spoke  of  doing  so,  but  was  prevailed  upon  to  re 
frain  by  Kid  Jacobs,  who  pointed  out  the  electro- 
cutionary  inconveniences  sure  to  follow  such  a  cere 
mony. 

"They'd  slam  youse  in  th'  chair,  sure !''  was  the 
sober-headed  way  that  Jacobs  put  it. 

Crazy  Barry,  one  hand  in  McTaffe's  hair,  had 
drawn  the  latter's  head  across  his  knee,  the  better 
to  attend  to  the  throat-cutting.  Convinced,  how 
ever,  by  the  words  of  Jacobs,  he  let  the  head,  throat 
all  unslashed,  fall  heavily  to  the  floor.  After  which, 
first  wiping  the  blood  from  his  knife  on  McTaffe's 
coat — for  he  had  an  instinct  to  be  neat — he  lam- 
mistered  for  parts  unknown,  while  McTaffe  was 
conveyed  to  the  New  York  Hospital.  This  chanced 
in  the  Sixth  Avenue  temple  of  entertainment  kept 
by  the  late  Paddy  the  Pig. 

Once  out  of  the  hospital  and  into  the  street,  Mc 
Taffe  and  the  fair  Leoni  found  no  trouble  in  being 
all  the  world  to  one  another.  Crazy  Barry  was  a 
thing  of  the  past  and,  since  the  Central  Office  dicks 
wanted  him,  likely  to  remain  so. 

McTaffe  was  of  the  swell  mob.  He  worked  with 
Goldie  Louie,  Fog-eye  Howard  and  Brother  Bill 

139 


Orr.  Ask  any  Central  Office  bull,  half  learned  in 
his  trade  of  crook-catcher,  and  he'll  tell  you  that 
these  names  are  of  a  pick-purse  peerage.  McTaffe 
himself  was  the  stinger,  and  personally  pinched 
the  poke,  or  flimped  the  thimble,  or  sprung  the  prop, 
of  whatever  boob  was  being  trimmed.  The  others, 
every  one  a  star,  were  proud  to  act  as  his  stalls; 
and  that,  more  than  any  Central  Office  assurance, 
should  show  how  near  the  top  was  McTaffe  in 
gonoph  estimation. 

Every  profession  has  its  drawbacks,  and  that  of 
picking  pockets  possesses  several.  For  one  irri 
tating  element,  it  is  apt  to  take  the  practitioner  out 
of  town  for  weeks  on  end.  Some  sucker  puts  up 
a  roar,  perhaps,  and  excites  the  assiduities  of  the 
police ;  or  there  is  a  prize  fight  at  Reno,  or  a  World's 
Fair  at  St.  Louis,  or  a  political  convention  at  Chi 
cago,  or  a  crowd-gathering  tour  by  some  notable  like 
Mr.  Roosevelt  or  Mr.  Taft,  which  gives  such  prom 
ise  of  profit  that  it  is  not  to  be  refused.  Thus  it 
befell  that  McTaffe,  with  his  mob,  was  greatly 
abroad  in  the  land,  leaving  Leoni  deserted  and 
alone. 

Once  McTaffe  remained  away  so  long  that  it 
caused  Leoni  uneasiness,  if  not  alarm. 

"Mack's  fell  for  something,"  was  the  way  she 
set  forth  her  fears  to  Big  Kitty :  "You  can  gamble 
lie's  in  hock  somewheres,  or  I'd  have  got  the  office 
from  him  by  wire  or  letter  long  ago." 

140 


When  McTaffe  at  last  came  back,  his  face  ex 
hibited  pain  and  defeat.  He  related  how  the  mob 
had  been  caught  in  a  jam  in  Chihuahua,  and  Goldie 
Louie  lagged. 

"The  rest  of  the  fleet  managed  to  make  a  get 
away,"  said  McTaffe,  "all  but  poor  Goldie.  Those 
Greasers  have  got  him  right,  too ;  he's  cinched  to 
do  a  couple  of  spaces  sure.  When  I  reached  El 
Paso,  I  slimmed  me  roll  for  five  hundred  bucks,  an' 
hired  him  a  mouthpiece.  But  what  good  is  a  mouth 
piece  when  there  ain't  the  shadow  of  a  chance  to 
spring  him  ?" 

"So  Goldie  got  a  rumble,  did  he?"  said  Leoni, 
with  a  half  sigh. 

Her  tones  were  pensive  to  the  verge  of  tears; 
since  her  love  for  Goldie  was  almost  if  not  quite 
equal  to  the  love  she  bore  McTaffe. 

Goldie  Louie  lay  caged  in  the  Chihuahua  cala 
boose,  and  Sanky  Dunn  joined  out  with  McTaffe 
and  the  others  in  his  place.  With  forces  thus  re 
organized,  McTaffe  took  up  the  burdens  of  life 
again,  and — here  one  day  and  gone  the  next — ex 
istence  for  himself  and  Leoni  returned  to  old-time 
lines. 

Leoni  met  Casey.  With  smooth,  dark,  handsome 
face,  Casey  was  the  superior  in  looks  of  either  Mc 
Taffe  or  Goldie  Louie.  Also,  he  had  fame  as  a  gun- 
fighter,  and  for  a  rock-like  steadiness  under  fire. 
He  was  credited,  too,  by  popular  voice,  with  having 

141 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

been  busy  in  the  stirring,  near  vicinity  of  events, 
when  divers  gentlemen  got  bumped  off.  This  had 
in  it  a  fascination  for  Leoni,  who — as  have  the 
ladies  of  every  age  and  clime — dearly  loved  a  war 
rior.  Moreover,  Casey  had  money,  and,  unlike 
those  others,  he  was  always  on  the  job.  This  last 
was  important  to  Leoni,  who  at  any  moment  might 
find  herself  at  issue  with  the  powers,  and  Casey, 
because  of  his  political  position,  could  speak  to  the 
judge. 

Leoni  loved  Casey,  even  as  she  had  aforetime 
loved  McTaffe,  Goldie  Louie  and  Crazy  Barry. 
True,  Casey  owned  a  wife.  But  there  arose  nothing 
in  his  conduct  to  indicate  it;  and  since  he  was  too 
much  of  a  gentleman  to  let  it  get  in  any  one's  way, 
Leoni  herself  was  so  generous  as  to  treat  it  as  a 
technicality. 

McTaffe  and  his  mob  returned  from  a  losing  ex 
pedition  through  the  West.  Leoni  asked  as  to  re 
sults. 

"Why,"  explained  McTaffe,  sulkily,  "th'  trip  was 
not  only  a  waterhaul,  but  it  leaves  me  on  the  nut 
for  twelve  hundred  bones." 

McTaffe  turned  his  pockets  inside  out,  by  way 
of  corroboration. 

While  thus  irritated  because  of  that  financial  set 
back,  McTaffe  heard  of  Leoni's  blushing  nearness 
to  Casey.  It  was  the  moment  of  all  moments  when 
he  was  least  able  to  bear  the  blow  with  philosophy. 

142 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

And  McTaffe  stormed.  Going1  farther,  and  by 
way  of  corrective  climax,  he  knocked  Leoni  down 
with  a  club.  After  which — according  to  eye-wit 
nesses,  who  spoke  without  prejudice — he  pro 
ceeded  to  beat  her  up  for  fair. 

Leoni  told  her  adventures  to  Casey,  and  showed 
him  what  a  harvest  of  bruises  her  love  for  him  had 
garnered.  Casey,  who  hadn't  been  born  and 
brought  up  in  Mulberry  Bend  to  become  a  leading 
light  of  Gangland  for  nothing,  took  his  gun  and 
issued  forth  on  the  trail  of  McTaffe.  McTaffe 
left  town.  Also,  that  he  didn't  take  his  mob  with 
him  proved  that  not  graft,  but  fear  of  Casey,  was 
the  bug  beneath  the  chip  of  his  disappearance. 

"He's  sherried,"  Casey  told  Leoni,  when  that  ill- 
used  beauty  asked  if  he  had  avenged  her  bruises. 
"But  he'll  blow  in  ag'in;  an'  when  he  does  I'll  cook 
him." 

Goldie  Louie  came  up  from  Chihuahua,  his  yel 
low  hair  shot  with  gray,  the  prison  pallor  in  the 
starved  hollows  of  his  cheeks.  Mexicans  are  the 
most  merciless  of  jailers.  Fog-eye  Howard,  who 
was  nothing  if  not  a  gossip,  wised  him  up  as  to 
Leoni's  love  for  Casey.  In  that  connection  Fog- 
eye  related  how  McTaffe,  having  rebuked  Leoni's 
heart  wanderings  with  that  convincing  club,  had 
now  become  a  fugitive  from  Casey's  gun. 

Having  heard  Fog-eye  to  the  end,  Goldie  faith 
fully  hunted  up  Leoni  and  wore  out  a  second  club 

143 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

on  her  himself.  Again  did  Leoni  creep  to  Casey 
with  her  woes  and  her  wrongs,  and  again  did  that 
Knight  of  Mulberry  Bend  gird  up  his  fierce  loins  to 
avenge  her. 

Let  us  step  rearward  a  pace. 

After  the  Committee  of  Fourteen,  in  its  uneasy 
purities,  had  caused  Chick  Tricker's  Park  Row  li 
cense  to  be  revoked,  Tricker,  seeking  a  livelihood, 
became  the  owner  of  the  Stag  in  Twenty-eighth 
Street,  just  off  Broadway.  That  license  revocation 
had  been  a  financial  jolt,  and  now  in  new  quarters, 
with  Berlin  Auggy,  whom  he  had  brought  with  him 
as  partner,  he  was  striving,  in  every  way  not  likely 
to  invoke  police  interference  to  re-establish  his 
prostrate  destiny. 

It  was  the  evening  next  after  the  one  upon  which 
Goldie  Louie,  following  the  example  of  the  van 
ished  McTaffe,  had  expressed  club-wise  his  disap 
proval  of  Leoni's  love  for  Casey.  The  Stag  was 
a  riot  of  life  and  light  and  laughter;  music  and 
conversation  and  drink  prevailed.  In  the  rear  room 
—fenced  off  from  the  bar  by  swinging  doors — 
was  Goldie  Louie,  together  with  Fog-eye  Howard, 
Brother  Bill  Orr  and  Sanky  Dunn.  There,  too, 
Whitey  Dutch  was  entertaining  certain  of  the 
choicest  among  the  Five  Pointers.  Scattered  here 
and  there  were  Little  Red,  the  Baltimore  Rat,  Louis 
Buck,  Stager  Bennett,  Jack  Cohalan,  the  Humble 

144 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Dutchman,  and  others  of  renown  in  the  grimy 
chivalry  of  crime.  There  were  fair  ones,  too,  and 
the  silken  sex  found  dulcet  representation  in  such 
unchallenged  belles  as  Pretty  Agnes,  Jew  Yetta, 
Dutch  Ida,  and  Anna  Gold.  True,  an  artist  in  wom 
anly  beauty  might  have  found  defects  in  each  of 
these.  And  if  so?  Venus  had  a  mole  on  her 
cheek,  Helen  a  scar  on  her  chin. 

Tricker  was  not  with  his  guests  at  the  Stag  that 
night.  His  father  had  been  reported  sick,  and 
Tricker  was  in  filial  attendance  at  the  Fourteenth 
Street  bedside  of  his  stricken  sire.  In  his  ab 
sence,  Auggy  took  charge,  and  under  his  genial 
management  beer  flowed,  coin  came  in,  and  all  Stag 
things  went  moving  merrily. 

Whitey  Dutch,  speaking  to  Stagger  Bennett  con 
cerning  Pioggi,  aforetime  put  away  in  the  Elmira 
Reformatory  for  the  Coney  Island  killing  of  Cyclone 
Louie  and  Kid  Twist,  made  quite  a  tale  of  how 
Pioggi,  having  served  his  time,  had  again  shown  up 
in  town.  Whitey  mentioned,  as  a  matter  for  gen 
eral  congratulation,  that  Pioggi's  Elmira  experience 
had  not  robbed  him  of  his  right  to  vote,  as  would 
have  been  the  blighting  case  had  he  gone  to  Sing 
Sing. 

"There's  nothing  in  that  disfranchisement  thing, 
anyhow,"  grumbled  the  Humble  Dutchman,  who 
sat  sourly  listening.  "I've  been  up  th'  river  twict, 

145 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

an'  I've  voted  a  dozen  times  every  election  since. 
Them  law-makin'  stiffs  is  goin'  to  take  your  vote 
away!  Say,  that  gives  me  a  pain!" 

The  Humble  Dutchman  got  off  the  last  in  tones 
of  supreme  contempt. 

Grouped  around  a  table  near  the  center,  and  under 
convoy  of  a  Central  Office  representative  who  per 
formed  towards  them  in  the  triple  role  of  guide, 
philosopher  and  friend,  were  gathered  a  half  dozen 
Fifth  Avenue  males  and  females,  all  members  in 
good  standing  of  the  Purple  and  Fine  Linen  Gang. 
Auggy,  in  the  absence  of  Tricker,  had  received 
them  graciously,  pressed  cigars  and  drinks  upon 
them,  declining  the  while  their  proffered  money  of 
the  realm  in  a  manner  composite  of  suavity  and 
princely  ease. 

"It's  an  honor,  loides  an'  gents,"  said  Auggy, 
"merely  to  see  your  maps  in  the  Stag  at  all.  As  for 
th'  booze  an'  smokes,  they're  on  th'  house.  Your 
dough  don't  go  here,  see!" 

The  Purple  and  Fine  Linen  contingent  called 
their  visit  slumming.  If  they  could  have  heard  what 
Auggy,  despite  his  beaming  smiles  and  royal  lib 
erality  touching  those  refreshments,  called  both 
them  and  their  visit,  after  they  had  left,  it  might 
have  set  their  patrician  ears  afire. 

Having  done  the  Stag,  and  seen  and  heard  and 
misunderstood  things  to  their  slumming  souls'  con 
tent,  the  Purple  and  Fine  Linen  Gang  said  good- 

146 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

bye.  They  must  drop  in — they  explained — at  the 
Haymarket,  just  around  the  corner  in  Sixth  Ave 
nue.  Auggy  invited  them  to  come  again,  but  was 
visibly  relieved  once  they  had  gone  their  slumming 
way. 

"I  was  afraid  every  minute  some  duck'd  start 
something,"  said  Auggy,  "an'  of  course  if  any 
thing  did  break  loose — any  little  t'ing,  if  it  ain't 
no  more  than  soakin'  some  dub  in  th'  jaw — one 
of  them  Fift'  Avenoo  dames's  'ud  be  bound  to  t'row 
a  fit." 

"Say!"  broke  in  Anna  Gold  resentfully;  "it's 
somethin'  fierce  th'  way  them  high  s'ciety  fairies 
comes  buttin'  in  on  us.  Wat  do  they  think  they're 
tryin'  to  give  us,  anyway  ?  For  th'  price  of  a  beer, 
I'd  have  snatched  one  of  them  baby-dolls  bald- 
headed.  I'd  have  nailed  her  be  th'  mop;  an'  w'en 
I'd  got  t'rough  doin'  stunts  wit'  her,  she  wouldn't 
have  had  to  tell  no  one  she'd  been  slummin'." 

"Now,  forget  it !"  interposed  Auggy  warningly. 
"You  go  reachin'  for  any  skirt's  puffs  round  here, 
an'  it'll  be  the  hurry-up  wagon  at  a  gallop  an'  you 
for  the  cooler,  Anna.  The  Stag's  a  quiet  joint,  an* 
that  rough-house  stuff  don't  go.  Chick  won't  stand 
for  no  one  to  get  hoited." 

"Oh,  Chick  won't  stand  for  no  one  to  get  hoited !" 
retorted  the  acrid  Anna,  in  mighty  dudgeon.  "An' 
the  Stag's  a  quiet  joint!  Why,  it  ain't  six  weeks 
since  a  guy  pulls  a  cannister  in  this  very  room,  an' 

147 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

shoots  Joe  Rocks  full  of  holes.  You  helps  take 
him  to  the  hospital  yourself." 

"Cut  out  that  Joe  Rocks  stuff,"  commanded  Aug- 
gy,  with  vast  heat,  "or  you'll  hit  the  street  on  your 
frizzes — don't  make  no  mistake!" 

Observing  the  stormy  slant  the  talk  was  taking, 
Whitey  Dutch  diplomatically  ordered  beer,  and 
thus  put  an  end  to  debate.  It  was  a  move  full  of 
wisdom.  Auggy  was  made  nervous  by  the  absence 
of  Tricker,  and  Anna  the  Voluble,  on  many  a  field, 
had  shown  herself  a  lady  of  spirit. 

While  the  evening  at  the  Stag  thus  went  happily 
wearing  towards  the  smaller  hours,  over  in  Twen 
ty-ninth  Street,  a  block  away,  the  stuss  game  of 
Casey  and  Paper-Box  Johnny  was  in  full  and  prof 
itable  blast.  Paper-Box  himself  was  in  active 
charge.  Casey  had  for  the  moment  abandoned 
business  and  every  thought  of  it.  Leoni  had  just 
informed  him  of  those  visitations  at  the  hands  of 
Goldie  Louie,  and  set  him  to  thinking  on  other 
things  than  cards. 

"An5  he  says,"  concluded  Leoni,  preparing  to  go, 
"after  he's  beat  me  half  to  death,  'now  chase  'round 
an'  tell  your  Dago  friend,  Casey,  that  my  monaker 
ain't  McTaffe,  an'  that  if  he  starts  to  hand  me 
anythin',  I'll  put  him  down  in  Bellevue  for  the 
count.'  " 

The  dark  face  of  Casey  displayed  both  anger  and 
148 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

resolution.  He  made  neither  threat  nor  comment, 
but  his  eyes  were  full  of  somber  fires.  Leoni  de 
parted  with  an  avowed  purpose  of  subjecting  her  in 
juries  to  the  curative  effects  of  arnica,  while  Casey 
continued  to  gloom  and  glower,  drinking  deeply 
the  while  to  take  the  edge  off  his  feelings. 

Harry  Lemmy,  a  once  promising  prize-fighter  of 
the  welter-weight  variety,  showed  up.  Also,  he 
had  no  more  than  settled  to  the  drink,  which  Casey 
—whom  the  wrongs  of  his  idolized  Leoni  could 
not  render  unmindful  of  the  claims  of  hospitality 
— had  ordered,  when  Jack  Kenny  and  Charlie 
Young  appeared. 

The  latter,  not  alive  to  the  fatal  importance  of 
such  news,  spoke  of  the  Stag,  which  he  had  left 
but  the  moment  before,  and  of  the  presence  there 
of  Goldie  Louie. 

"McTaffe's  stalls,  Fog-eye,  Brother  Bill  an' 
Sanky  Dunn,  are  lushin'  wit'  him,"  said  Young. 
"You  know  Sanky  filled  in  wit'  th'  mob  th'  time 
Goldie  gets  settled  in  Mexico." 

Goldie  Louie,  only  a  block  away,  set  the  torch 
to  Casey's  heart. 

"Where's  Dago  Frankie?"  he  asked. 

Dago  Frankie  was  his  nearest  and  most  trusted 
friend. 

"He's  over  in  Sixt'  Avenoo  shootin'  craps,"  re 
plied  Lemmy.  "Shall  I  go  dig  him  up  ?" 

149 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

"It  don't  matter,"  said  Casey,  after  a  moment's 
thought.  Then,  getting  up  from  his  chair,  he  in 
quired,  "Have  you  guys  got  your  cannons?" 

"Sure  t'ing!"  came  the  general  chorus,  with  a 
closer  from  Kenny. 

"I've  got  two,"  he  said.  "A  sport  might  get 
along  wit'out  a  change  of  shoits  in  Noo  York,  but 
he  never  ought  to  be  wit'out  a  change  of  guns." 

"Wat's  on,  Phil?"  asked  Charlie  Young,  anx 
iously,  as  Casey  pulled  a  magazine  pistol,  and  care 
fully  made  sure  that  its  stomach  was  full  of  cart 
ridges;  "w'at's  on?" 

"I'm  goin'  over  to  the  Stag,"  replied  Casey.  "If 
you  ducks'll  listen  you'll  hear  a  dog  howl  in  about 
a  minute." 

"We'll  not  only  listen,  but  we'll  go  'long,"  re 
turned  Young. 

Lemmy  and  Kenny  fell  behind  the  ethers. 
"W'at's  th'  muss?"  whispered  Lemmy. 

"It's  Leoni,"  explained  Kenny  guardedly. 
"Goldie  give  her  a  wallop  or  two  last  night,  an' 
Phil's  goin'  to  do  him  for  it." 

Casey  strode  into  the  Stag,  his  bosom  a  storm- 
center  for  every  black  emotion.  The  sophisticated 
Auggy  smelled  instant  trouble  on  him,  as  one  smells 
fire  in  a  house.  Bending  over  the  friendly  shoulder 
of  Whitey  Dutch,  Auggy  spoke  in  a  low  tone  of 
warning. 

"There's  Phil  Casey,"  he  said,  "an'  t'ree  of  his 
150 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

bunch.  It's  apples  to  ashes  he's  gunnin'  for  Goldie. 
If  Chick  were  here,  now,  he'd  somehow  put  the 
smother  on  him." 

"Give  him  a  call-down  your  own  self,"  was 
Whitey's  counsel.  "Wat  with  Chick's  license  bein' 
revoked  in  Park  Row,  an'  Joe  Rocks  goin'  to  the 
hospital  from  here  only  a  little  over  a  mont'  ago, 
the  least  bit  of  cannonadin*  's  bound  to  put  th' 
joint  in  Dutch  all  the  way  from  headquarters  to  the 
State  excise  dubs  in  Albany." 

"I  know  it,"  returned  Auggy,  in  great  trouble  of 
mind.  "If  a  gun  so  much  as  cracks  once,  it'll  be  th' 
fare-you-well  of  the  Stag." 

"Well,  w'at  do  youse  say?"  demanded  the  loyal 
Whitey.  "I'm  wit'  youse,  an'  I'm  wit'  Chick,  an' 
I'm  wit'  Goldie.  Give  th'  woid,  an'  I'll  pull  in  a 
harness  bull  from  off  his  beat." 

"No,  none  of  that!  Chick'd  sooner  burn  the 
joint  than  call  a  cop." 

"I'll  go  give  Casey  a  chin,"  said  Whitey,  "meb- 
by  I  can  hold  him  down.  You  put  Goldie  wise. 
Tell  him  to  keep  his  lamps  on  Casey,  an'  if  Casey 
reaches  for  his  gatt  to  beat  him  to  it." 

Casey  the  decisive  moved  swiftly,  however,  and 
the  proposed  peace  intervention  failed  for  being  too 
slow.  Casey  got  a  glimpse  of  Goldie  through  the 
separating  screen  doors.  It  was  all  he  wanted.  The 
next  moment  he  had  charged  through. 

Chairs  crashed,  tables  were  overthrown,  women 
151 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

shrieked  and  men  cursed.  Twenty  guns  were  out. 
Casey  fired  six  times  at  Goldie  Louie,  and  six  times 
missed  that  lucky  meddler  with  other  people's 
pocket-books.  Not  that  Casey's  efforts  were  alto 
gether  thrown  away.  His  first  bullet  lodged  in  the 
stomach  of  Fog-eye,  while  his  third  broke  the  arm 
of  Brother  Bill. 

Whitey  Dutch  reached  Casey  as  the  latter  began 
his  artillery  practice,  and  sought  by  word  and 
moderate  force  to  induce  a  truce.  Losing  patience, 
however,  Whitey,  as  Casey  fired  his  final  shot, 
pulled  his  own  gun  and  put  a  bullet  through  and 
through  that  berserk's  head.  As  Casey  fell  for 
ward,  a  second  bullet — coming  from  anywhere — • 
buried  itself  in  his  back. 

"By  the  Lord,  I've  croaked  Phil !"  was  the  ex 
clamation  of  Whitey,  addressed  to  no  one  in  par 
ticular. 

They  were  Whitey's  last  words ;  some  one  shoved 
the  muzzle  of  a  gun  against  his  temple,  and  he  fell 
by  the  side  of  Casey. 

No  sure  list  of  dead  and  wounded  for  that  even 
ing's  battle  of  the  Stag  will  ever  be  compiled.  The 
guests  scattered  like  a  flock  of  blackbirds.  Some 
fled  limping  and  groaning,  others  nursing  an  in 
jured  arm,  while  three  or  four,  too  badly  hurt  to 
travel,  were  dragged  into  nooks  of  safety  by 
friends  who'd  come  through  untouched.  There 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Twenty-eighth  Street  pavements,  and  a  wounded 
gentleman  was  picked  up  in  Broadway,  two  blocks 
away.  The  wounded  one,  full  of  a  fine  prudence 
and  adhering  strictly  to  gang  teachings,  declared 
that  the  bullet  which  had  struck  him  was  a  bullet  of 
mystery.  Also,  he  gave  his  word  of  honor  that, 
personally,  he  had  never  once  heard  of  the  Stag. 

When  the  police  reached  the  field  of  battle — 
wearing  the  ill-used  airs  of  folk  who  had  been 
unwarrantably  disturbed — they  found  Casey  and 
Whitey  Dutch  dead  on  the  floor,  and  Fog-eye 
groaning  in  a  corner.  To  these — counting  the  in 
jured  Brother  Bill  and  the  prudent  one  picked  up 
in  Broadway,  finlly  identified  as  Sanky  Dunn — 
rumor  added  two  dead  and  eleven  wounded. 

Leoni  ? 

The  Central  Office  dicks  who  met  that  lamp  of 
loveliness  the  other  evening  in  Broadway  reported 
her  as  in  abundant  spirits,  and  more  beautiful  than 
ever.  She  had  received  a  letter  from  McTaffe,  she 
said,  who  sent  his  love,  and  her  eyes  shone  like 
twin  stars  because  of  the  joy  she  felt. 

"Mack  always  had  a  good  heart,"  said  Leoni. 

Paper-Box  Johnny — all  in  tears — bore  sorrowful 
word  of  her  loss  to  Mrs.  Casey,  calling  that  matron 
from  her  slumbers  to  receive  it.  Paper-Box  man 
aged  delicately. 

"It's  time  to  dig  up  black!"  sobbed  Paper-Box; 
"they've  copped  Phil. 

153 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

"Copped  Phil?"  repeated  Mrs.  Casey,  sleepily. 
"Where  is  he?" 

"On  a  slab  in  the  morgue.  Youse'd  better  chase 
yourself  over." 

"All  right,"  returned  Mrs.  Casey,  making  ready 
to  go  back  to  bed,  "I  will  after  awhile." 


164 


VIII. 
THE  WAGES  OF  THE  SNITCH 

Knowledge  is  power,  and  power  is  a  good  thing, 
as  you  yourself  well  know.  Since  Eve  opened  the 
way,  and  she  and  Adam  paid  the  price — a  high 
one,  I  sometimes  think — you  are  entitled  to  every 
kind  of  knowledge.  Also,  you  are  entitled  to  all 
that  you  can  get. 

But  having  acquired  knowledge,  you  are  not  en 
titled  to  peddle  it  out  in  secret  to  Central  Office 
bulls,  at  a  cost  of  liberty  and  often  life  to  other 
men.  When  you  do  that  you  are  a  snitch,  and  have 
thrown  away  your  right  to  live.  Anyone  is  free 
to  kill  you  out  of  hand,  having  regard  only  to  his 
own  safety.  For  such  is  the  common  law  of  Gang 
land. 

Let  me  ladle  out  a  cautionary  spoonful. 

As  you  go  about  accumulating  knowledge,  you 
should  fix  your  eye  upon  one  or  two  great  truths. 
You  must  never  forget  that  when  you  are  close 
enough  to  see  a  man  you  are  close  enough  to  be  seen. 
It  is  likewise  foolish,  weakly  foolish,  to  assume 
that  you  are  the  only  gas  jet  in  the  chandelier,  the 
only  pebble  on  the  beach,  or  possess  the  only  kodak 

155 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

throughout  the  entire  length  of  the  boardwalk. 
Bear  ever  in  mind  that  while  you  are  getting  the 
picture  of  some  other  fellow,  he  in  all  human 
chance  is  snapping  yours. 

This  last  is  not  so  much  by  virtue  of  any  law  of 
Gangland  as  by  a  law  of  nature.  Its  purpose  is  to 
preserve  that  equil  brium,  wanting  which,  the  uni 
verse  itself  would  slip  into  chaos  and  the  music  of 
the  spheres  become  but  the  rawest  tuning  of  the 
elemental  instruments.  The  stars  would  no  longer 
sing  together,  but  shriek  together,  and  space  itself 
would  be  driven  to  stop  its  ears.  Folk  who  fail  to 
carry  these  grave  matters  upon  the  constant 
shoulder  of  their  regard,  get  into  trouble. 

At  Gouverneur  hospital,  where  he  died,  the  regis 
ter  gave  his  name  as  "Samuel  Wendell,"  and  let 
it  go  at  that.  The  Central  Office,  which  finds  its 
profit  in  amplification,  said  Samuel  Wendell, 
alias  Kid  Unger,  alias  the  Ghost,"  and  further 
identified  him  as  "brother  to  Johnny  the  Mock." 

Samuel  Wendell,  alias  Kid  Unger,  alias  the 
Ghost,  brother  to  Johnny  the  Mock,  was  not  the 
original  Ghost.  Until  less  than  two  years  ago  the 
title  was  honorably  worn  by  Mashier,  who  got 
twenty  spaces  for  a  night  trick  he  turned  in  Brook 
lyn.  Since  Mashier  could  not  use  the  name  in 
Sing  Sing,  Wendell,  alias  Kid  Unger,  brother  to 
Johnny  the  Mock,  adopted  it  for  his  own.  It  fitted 
well  with  his  midnight  methods  and  noiseless,  glid- 

156 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

ing,  skulking  ways.  Moreover,  since  it  was  upon 
his  own  sly  rap  to  the  bulls,  who  made  the  collar, 
that  Mashier  got  pinched,  he  may  have  felt  him 
self  entitled  to  the  name  as  part  of  his  reward.  The 
Indian  scalps  his  victim,  and  upon  a  similar  princi 
ple  Wendell,  alias  Unger,  brother  to  Johnny  the 
Mock,  when  Mashier  was  handed  that  breath-taking- 
twenty  years,  may  have  decided  to  call  himself  the 
Ghost. 

It  will  never  be  precisely  known  how  and  why 
and  by  whose  hand  the  Ghost  was  killed,  although  it 
is  common  opinion  that  Pretty  Agnes  had  much  to 
do  with  it.  Also,  common  opinion  is  more  often 
right  than  many  might  believe.  In  view  of  that 
possible  connection  with  the  bumping  off  of  the 
Ghost,  Pretty  Agnes  is  worth  a  word.  She  could 
not  have  been  called  old.  When  upon  a  certain 
Saturday  evening,  not  remote,  she  stepped  into  Jack 
Sirocco's  in  Chatham  Square,  her  years  counted 
fewer  than  nineteen.  Still,  she  had  seen  a  good 
deal — or  a  bad  deal — whichever  you  prefer. 

Pretty  Agnes'  father,  a  longshoreman,  had 
found  his  bread  along  the  docks.  None  better  ever 
shaped  for  a  boss  stevedore,  or  trotted  up  a  gang 
plank  with  a  28o-pound  sack  of  sugar  on  his  back. 
One  day  he  fell  between  the  side  of  a  moored 
ship  and  the  stringpiece  of  the  wharf;  and  the 
ship,  being  at  that  moment  ground  against  the 
wharf  by  the  swell  from  a  passing  steamer,  he  was 

157 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

crushed.  Those  who  looked  on  called  him  a  fool 
for  having  been  killed  in  so  poor  a  way.  He  was 
too  dead  to  resent  the  criticism,  and  after  that  his 
widow,  the  mother  of  Pretty  Agnes,  took  in  wash 
ing. 

Her  mother  washed,  and  Pretty  Agnes  carried 
home  the  clothes.  This  went  on  for  three  years. 
One  wind-blown  afternoon,  as  the  mother  was 
hanging  out  clothes  on  the  roof — a  high  one — and 
refreshing  her  energies  with  intermittent  gin  from 
the  bottle  of  her  neighbor,  the  generous  Mrs.  Calla- 
han,  she  stepped  backward  down  an  airshaft.  She 
struck  the  flags  ten  stories  below,  and  left  Pretty 
Agnes  to  look  out  for  herself. 

Looking  out  for  herself,  Pretty  Agnes  worked 
in  a  sweatshop  in  Division  Street.  Here  she  made 
three  dollars  a  week  and  needed  five.  The  sweat 
shop  owner — for  she  wras  a  dream  of  loveliness, 
with  a  fog  of  blue-black  hair  and  deep  brown  eyes 
— offered  to  make  up  the  lacking  two,  and  was 
accepted. 

Round,  ripe,  willowy,  Pretty  Agnes  graduated 
from  the  Division  Street  sweatshop  to  a  store  in 
Twenty-third  Street.  There  she  served  as  a  cloak 
model,  making  fourteen  dollars  a  week  while  need 
ing  twenty.  The  manager  of  the  cloak  store  was 
as  generous  as  had  been  the  owner  of  the  sweatshop, 
and  benevolently  made  up  the  absent  six. 

158 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

For  Pretty  Agnes  was  lovelier  than  ever. 

All  work  and  no  play,  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy. 
Also,  it  has  the  same  effect  on  Jill.  Pretty  Agnes 
— she  had  a  trunkful  of  good  clothes  and  yearned 
to  show  them — went  three  nights  a  week  to  one 
of  those  dancing  academies  wherewith  the  East 
Side  was  and  is  rife.  As  she  danced  she  met  Indian 
Louie,  and  lost  no  time  in  loving  him. 

Having  advantage  of  her  love,  that  seeker  after 
doubtful  dollars  showed  Pretty  Agnes  where  and 
how  she  could  make  more  money  than  would  come 
to  her  as  a  cloak  model  in  any  Twenty-third  Street 
store.  Besides,  he  jealously  disapproved  of  the 
benevolent  manager,  though,  all  things  considered, 
it  is  hard  to  say  why. 

Pretty  Agnes,  who  had  grown  weary  of  the 
manager  and  to  whom  Louie's  word  was  law,  threw 
over  both  the  manager  and  her  cloak-model  posi 
tion.  After  which  she  walked  the  streets  for  Louie 
— as  likewise  did  Mollie  Squint — and,  since  he 
often  beat  her,  continued  to  love  him  from  the  bot 
tom  of  her  heart. 

Between  Pretty  Agnes  and  Mollie  Squint,  Louie 
lived  sumptuously.  Nor  could  they  themselves  be 
said  to  have  altogether  suffered ;  for  each  knew 
how  to  lick  her  fingers  as  a  good  cook  should. 
Perhaps  Louie  was  aware  that  his  darlings  held  out 
on  him,  but  regarded  it  as  just  an  investment.  He 
must  have  known  that  to  dress  well  stood  first 

159 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

among  the  demands  of  their  difficult  profession, 
which  was  ancient  and  had  been  honorable,  albeit 
in  latter  days  ill  spoken  of. 

Louie  died,  and  was  mourned  roundly  by  Pretty 
Agnes  for  eight  weeks.  Then  she  gave  her  love 
to  Sammy  Hart,  who  was  out-on-the-safe.  Charlie 
Lennard,  alias  Big  Head,  worked  pal  to  Sammy 
Hart,  and  the  Ghost  went  with  them  as  outside 
man  and  to  help  in  carrying  the  tools. 

Commonly  Sammy  and  Big  Head  tackled  only 
inferior  safes,  in  cracking  which  nothing  nobler 
nor  more  recondite  than  a  can-opener  was  de 
manded.  Now  and  then,  however,  when  a  first- 
class  box  had  to  be  blown  and  soup  was  an  absolute 
requirement,  the  Ghost  came  in  exceeding  handy. 
No  yegg  who  ever  swung  under  and  traveled  from 
town  to  town  without  a  ticket,  knew  better  than 
did  the  Ghost  how  to  make  soup. 

The  soup-making  process,  while  ticklish,  ought 
to  be  worth  reading  about.  A  cake  of  dynamite  is 
placed  in  the  cold  bottom  of  a  kettle.  Warm  water 
is  added,  and  the  kettle  set  a-simmer  over  a  ben 
zine  lamp.  As  the  water  heats,  the  dynamite  melts 
into  oil,  and  the  oil — being  lighter — rises  to  the 
top  of  the  water. 

The  oil  is  drawn  softly  off  with  a  syringe,  and 
as  softly  discharged  into  a  bottle  half  filled  with 
alcohol.  The  alcohol  is  to  prevent  explosion  by 
jarring.  Soup,  half  oil,  half  alcohol,  can  be  fired 

160 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

with  a  fuse,  but  will  sustain  quite  a  jolt  without 
resenting  it. 

This  was  not  true  in  an  elder  day,  before  our 
box  workers  discovered  that  golden  alcoholic  secret. 
There  was  a  yegg  once  who  was  half  in,  half  out, 
of  the  window  of  a  P.  O.  He  had  the  bottle  of 
soup  in  his  hip  pocket.  The  sash  fell,  struck  the 
consignment  of  hip-pocket  soup,  and  all  that  was 
found  of  the  yegg  were  the  soles  of  his  shoes. 
Nothing  so  disconcerting  would  have  happened 
had  the  Ghost  made  the  soup. 

The  Ghost,  while  believed  in  by  Big  Head  and 
Sammy,  was  distrusted  by  Pretty  Agnes.  She 
distrusted  him  because  of  his  bad  repute  as  a  snitch. 
She  called  Sammy's  attention  to  what  tales  were 
abroad  to  the  black  effect  that  the  Ghost  was  a 
copper  in  his  mildewed  soul,  and  one  time  and  an 
other  had  served  stoolpigeon  to  many  dicks. 

Sammy  took  no  stock  in  these  reports,  and  told 
Pretty  Agnes  so. 

"Th'  Ghost's  all  right,"  he  said;  "he's  been  wit' 
me  an'  Big  Head  when  we  toins  off  twenty  joints." 

"He  may  go  wit'  you,"  retorted  Pretty  Agnes, 
"for  twenty  more  tricks,  an'  never  rap.  But  mark 
me  woids,  Sammy;  in  th'  end  he'll  make  a  present 
of  youse  to  th'  bulls." 

Sammy  only  laughed,  holding  that  the  feminine 
intelligence,  while  suspicious,  was  not  a  strong  in 
telligence. 

161 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"Well,"  said  Sammy,  when  he  had  ceased  laugh 
ing,  "if  th'  Ghost  does  double-cross  me,  w'at'll 
youse  do?" 

"W'at'll  I  do  ?  As  sure  as  my  monaker  is  Pretty 
Agnes,  I'll  have  him  cooked." 

"Good  goil!"  said  Sammy  Hart. 

Gangland  discusses  things  social,  commercial, 
political,  and  freely  forms  and  gives  opinions. 
From  a  panic  in  Wall  Street  to  the  making  of  a 
President,  nothing  comes  or  goes  uncommented 
upon  and  unticketed  in  Gangland.  Even  the  fash 
ions  are  threshed  out,  and  sage  judgments  rend 
ered  concerning  frocks  and  hats  and  all  the  latest 
hints  from  Paris.  This  you  can  test  for  yourself, 
on  any  evening,  at  such  hubs  of  popular  interest 
as  Sirocco's,  Tony's,  Jimmy  Kelly's  or  the  Chat 
ham  Club. 

Sirocco's  was  a-swarm  with  life  that  Saturday 
evening  when  Pretty  Agnes  dropped  in  so  casually. 
At  old  Jimmy's  table  they  were  considering  the  steel 
trust  investigation,  then  proceeding — ex-President 
Roosevelt  had  that  day  testified — and  old  Jimmy 
and  the  Irish  \Vop  voiced  their  views,  and  gave  their 
feelings  vent.  Across  at  Slimmy's  the  dread  doings 
of  a  brace  of  fair  ones,  who  had  excited  Coney 
Island  by  descending  upon  that  lively  suburb  in 
harem  skirts,  was  under  discussion. 

Speaking  of  the  steel  trust  investigation  and  its 
developments,  old  Jimmy  was  unbelting  after  this 

162 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

wise.  Said  he,  bringing  down  his  hairy  fist  with  a 
whack  that  startled  every  beer  glass  on  the  table 
into  an  upward  jump  of  full  three  inches : 

"Th'  more  I  read  of  th'  doin's  of  them  rich  guys, 
th'  more  I  begin  to  think  that  th'  makin'  of  a 
mutt  lurks  in  every  million  dollars.  Say,  Wop, 
they  don't  know  how  to  pick  up  a  hand  an'  play  it, 
after  it's  been  dealt  'em.  Take  'em  off  Wall  Street 
an'  mix  'em  up  wit'  anything  except  stocks,  an' 
they  can't  tell  a  fire  plug  from  a  song  an'  dance  sou- 
brette.  If  some  ordinary  skate  was  to  go  crabbin' 
his  own  personal  game  th'  way  they  do  theirs,  th' 
next  you'd  hear  that  stew  would  be  in  Blooming- 
dale." 

"Phwat's  eatin'  yez  now,  Jimmy?"  inquired  the 
Wop,  carelessly.  "Is  it  that  steel  trusht  thing  th' 
pa-a-apers  is  so  full  of?" 

"That  an'  th'  way  Morgan  an'  th'  balance  of 
that  fur-lined  push  fall  over  themselves.  Th'  big 
thing  they're  shy  on  is  diplomacy.  When  it  comes 
to  diplomacy,  they're  a  lot  of  dead  ones." 

"An'  phwat's  diplom'cy  ?" 

The  Wop  didn't  like  big  words ;  his  feeling  was 
to  first  question,  then  resent  them. 

"Phwat's  diplom'cy?"  he  repeated. 

"Diplomacy,"  said  old  Jimmy,  "is  any  cunnin' 
move  that  lands  th'  trick.  You  wake  up  an'  hear  a 
noise;  an'  you  think  it's  some  porch-climber,  like 
th'  Nailer  here,  turnin'  off  th'  joint.  At  that,  not 

163 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

knowin'  but  he's  framed  up  with  a  gun,  you  don't 
feel  like  goin'  to  th'  mat  with  him.  What  do  you 
do?  Well,  you  use  diplomacy.  You  tosses  mebby 
a  dumbbell  over  th'  bannisters,  an'  lets  it  go  bump- 
in'  along  from  step  to  step,  makin'  more  row  than 
some  geezer  fallin'  down  stairs  with  a  kitchen 
stove.  Th'  racket  throws  a  scare  into  th'  Nailer, 
an'  he  beats  it,  see?" 

"An'  that's  diplom'cy!"  said  the  Wop. 

"Also,  it's  exactly  what  them  Wall  Streeters 
ain't  got.  Look  at  th'  way  they're  always  fightin' 
Roosevelt.  For  twenty-five  years  they've  been 
roustin'  Teddy;  an'  for  twenty-five  years  they've 
done  nothin'  but  keep  him  on  th'  map.  When 
Teddy  was  in  Mulberry  Street  th'  Tammany  ducks 
gets  along  with  him  as  peaceful  as  a  basketful  of 
pups.  Diplomacy  does  it;  that,  an'  payin'  strict 
attention  to  Teddy's  blind  side.  'What's  th'  use 
of  kickin'  in  th'  gate,'  says  they,  'when  we  knows 
where  a  picket's  off  th'  fence  ?'  You  remember  Big 
Florrie  Sullivan  puttin'  young  Brady  on  th'  Force  ? 
Teddy's  in  Mulberry  Street  then.  Do  you  think 
Big  Florrie  goes  queerin'  th'  chances,  be  tellin' 
Teddy  how  Brady  passes  th'  cush  box  in  Father 
Curry's  church?  Not  on  your  life!  It  wouldn't 
have  been  diplomacy ;  Teddy  wouldn't  have  paid 
no  attention.  Big  Florrie  gets  in  his  work  like 
this: 

"  'Say,  Commish,'  he  says,  'I  sees  th'  fight  of 
164 


my  life  last  night.  Nineteen  rounds  to  a  knockout! 
It's  a  left  hook  to  th'  jaw  does  it.' 

"  'No !'  Teddy  says,  lightin'  up  like  Chinatown 
on  th'  night  of  a  Chink  festival ;  'you  int'rest  me ! 
Pull  up  a  stool,'  says  he,  'an'  put  your  feet  on  th' 
desk.  There;  now  you're  comfortable,  go  on  about 
th'  fight.  Who  were  they  ?' 

"  'A  lad  from  my  district  named  Brady,'  says 
Big  Florry,  'an'  a  dock-walloper  from  Williams- 
burg.  You  ought  to  have  seen  it,  Commish!  Oh, 
Brady's  th'  goods!  He's  th'  lad  to  go  th'  route! 
He's  all  over  that  Williamsburg  duffer  like  a  cat 
over  a  shed  roof!  He  went  'round  him  like  a 
cooper  'round  a  barrel !' 

"Big  Florrie  runs  on  like  that,  using  diplomacy, 
an'  two  weeks  later  Brady's  thumpin'  a  beat." 

"Ye're  r-r-right,  Jimmy,"  said  the  Wop,  after 
a  pause  which  smelled  of  wisdom;  "I  agrees  wit' 
yez.  Morgan,  Perkins,  Schwab  an'  thim  rich 
omadauns  is  th'  bum  lot.  Now  I  think  av  it,  too, 
Fatty  Walsh  minchons  that  wor-r-rd  diplom'cy  to 
me  long  ago.  Yez  knew  Fatty,  Jimmy?" 

"Fatty  an'  me  was  twins." 

"Fatty's  th'  foine  la-a-ad;  on'y  now  he's  dead — • 
Mary  resht  him!  Th'  time  I'm  in  th'  Tombs  for 
bouncin'  th'  brick  off  th'  head  av  that  Orangeman, 
who's  whistlin'  th'  Battle  av  th'  Boyne  to  see  how 
long  I  can  shtand  it,  Fatty's  th'  warden;  an'  say, 
he  made  th'  place  home  to  me.  He's  talkin',  Fatty 

165 


THE   APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

is,  wan  day  about  Mayor  Hughey  Grant,  an'  it's 
then  he  shpeaks  av  diplom'cy.  He  says  Hughey 
didn't  have  anny." 

"Don't  you  believe  it!"  interrupted  old  Jimmy; 
"Fatty  had  Hughey  down  wrong.  When  it  comes 
to  diplomacy,  Hughey  could  suck  an  egg  an'  never 
chip  th'  shell." 

"It's  a  special  case  loike.  Fatty's  dishtrict,  d'yez 
see,  has  nothin'  in  it  but  Eyetalians.  Wan  day 
they'r  makin'  ready  to  cilibrate  somethin'.  Fatty's 
in  it,  av  course,  bein'  leader,  an'  he  chases  down  to 
th'  City  Hall  an'  wins  out  a  permit  for  th'  Dago 
parade." 

"What's  Hughey  got  to  do  with  that?" 

"Lishten!  It  shtrikes  Hughey,  him  bein'  Mayor, 
it'll  be  th'  dead  wise  play,  when  Fatty  marches  by 
wit'  his  Guineas,  to  give  them  th'  gay,  encouragin* 
face.  Hughey  thinks  Fatty  an'  his  pushcart 
la-a-ads  is  cilibratin'  some  Dago  Saint  Patrick's 
day,  d'yez  see.  It's  there  Fatty  claims  that  Hughey 
shows  no  diplom'cy;  he'd  ought  to  have  ashked." 

"Asked  what?" 

"I'm  comin'  to  it.  Fatty  knows  nothin'  about 
phwat's  on  Hughey's  chest.  His  firsht  tip  is  when 
he  sees  Hughey,  an'  th'  balance  av  th'  Tammany 
adminishtration  cocked  up  in  a  hand-me-down 
grandshtand  they've  faked  together  in  City  Hall 
Park.  Fatty  pipes  'em,  as  he  an'  his  Black  Hand 
bunch  comes  rowlin'  along  down  Broadway,  an'  th' 

166 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

sight  av  that  grandshtand  full  av  harps,  Hughey  at 
th'  head,  almosht  gives  him  heart  failure. 

"Fatty  halts  his  Eyetalians,  sets  them  to 
ma-a-arkin'  toime,  an'  comes  sprintin'  an'  puffin' 
on  ahead. 

"  'Do  a  sneak !'  he  cries,  when  he  comes  near 
enough  to  pass  th'  wor-r-rd.  'Mother  above !  don't 
yez  know  phwat  these  wops  av  mine  is  cilibratin'? 
It's  chasm'  th'  pope  out  av  Rome.  Duck,  I  tell 
yez,  duck!" 

"Sure;  Hug!.3y  an'  th'  rist  av  th'  gang  took 
it  on  th'  run.  Fatty  could  ma-a-arch  all  right, 
because  there's  nobody  but  blackhanders  in  his  dish- 
trict.  But  wit'  Hughey  an'  th'  others  it's  different. 
They  might  have  got  his  grace,  th'  archbishop, 
afther  thim." 

"Coin'  back  to  Teddy,"  observed  old  Jimmy,  as 
he  called  for  beer,  "them  rich  lobsters  is  always 
stirrin'  him  up.  An'  they  always  gets  th'  worst 
of  it.  They've  never  brought  home  th'  bacon  yet. 
He's  put  one  over  on  'em  every  time. 

"Yez  can  gamble  that  Ticldy's  th'  la-a-ad  that 
can  fight!"  cried  the  Wop  in  tones  of  glee;  "he's 
tli'  baby  that's  always  lookin'  f'r  an  argument!" 
Then  in  a  burst,  both  rapturous  and  irrelevant: 
"He's  th'  idol  av  th'  criminal  illimint !" 

"I  don't  think  that's  ag'inst  him,"  interjected 
the  Nailer,  defensively. 

"Nor  me  neither,"  said  old  Jimmy.  "When  it 
167 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

comes  down  to  tacks,  who's  quicker  wit'  th'  ap- 
plaudin'  mitt  at  sight  of  an  honest  man  than  th' 
crim'nal  element? — only  so  he  ain't  bumpin'  into 
their  graft.  Who  is  it  hisses  th'  villyun  in  th' 
play  till  you  can  hear  him  in  Hoboken?  Ain't  it 
some  dub  just  off  the  Island?  Once  a  Blind  Tom 
show  is  at  Minor's,  an'  a  souse  in  th'  gallery  is 
so  carried  away  be  grief  at  th'  death  of  Little 
Eva,  he  falls  down  two  flights  of  stairs.  I  gets 
a  flash  at  him  as  they  tosses  him  into  th'  ambulance, 
an'  I  hopes  to  join  th'  church  if  it  ain't  a  murderer 
I  asks  Judge  Battery  Dan  to  put  away  on  Black- 
well's  for  beatin'  up  his  own  little  girl  till  she 
can't  get  into  her  frock.  Wall  Streeters  an'  college 
professors,  when  it  comes  to  endorsin'  an  honest 
man,  can't  take  no  medals  off  th'  crim'nal  element." 

"Phwy  has  Morgan  an'  th'  rist  av  thim  Wall 
Street  geeks  got  it  in  f'r  Tiddy?  queried  the  Wop. 
"Phwat's  he  done  to  'em?" 

"Nothin';  only  they  claims  it  ain't  larceny  if 
you  steal  more'n  a  hundred  thousand  dollars,  an* 
Teddy  won't  stand  for  a  limit." 

"If  that's  phwat  they're  in  a  clinch  about,  then 
I'm  for  Tiddy,"  declared  the  Wop.  "Ain't  it  him, 
too,  that  says  th'  only  difference  bechune  a  rich 
man  an'  a  poor  man  is  at  th'  bank?  More  power 
to  him! — why  not?  Would  this  beer  be  annythin' 
but  beer,  if  it  came  through  a  spigot  av  go-o-old, 

168 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

from  a  keg  av  silver,  an'  th'  bar-boy  had  used  a  dia- 
mond-shtudded  bung-starter  in  tappin'  it?" 

Over  at  Slimmy's  table,  where  the  weaker 
sex  predominated,  the  talk  was  along  lighter  lines. 
Mollie  Squint  spoke  in  condemnation  of  those 
harem  skirts  at  Coney  Island. 

"What  do  youse  think,"  she  asked,  "of  them 
she-scouts  showin'  up  at  Luna  Park  in  harem 
skirts?  Coarse  work  that — very  coarse.  It  goes 
to  prove  how  some  frails  ain't  more'n  half  baked." 

"Why  does  a  dame  go  to  th'  front  in  such  togs?" 
asked  Slimmy  disgustedly. 

"Because  she's  stuck  on  herself,"  said  the  Nailer, 
who  had  drifted  over  from  old  Jimmy  and  the 
Wop,  where  the  talk  was  growing  too  heavy  for 
him;  "an'  besides,  it's  an  easy  way  of  gettin'  th' 
spot-light.  Take  anything  like  this  harem  skirt 
stunt,  an'  oodles  of  crazy  Mollies'll  fall  for  it. 
Youse  can't  hand  it  out  too  raw!  So  if  it's  goin'  to 
stir  things  up,  an'  draw  attention,  they're  Johnny- 
at-the-rat-hole  every  time!" 

"We  ladies,"  remarked  Jew  Yetta,  like  a  com 
placent  Portia  giving  judgment,  "certainly  do  like 
to  be  present  at  th'  ball  game!  An'  if  we  can't 
beat  th'  gate — can't  heel  in — we'll  climb  th'  fence. 
Likewise,  we're  right  there  whenever  it's  th'  latest 
thing.  Especially,  if  we've  got  a  face  that'd  stop 
traffic  in  th'  street.  Do  youse  remember" — -this  to 

169 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Anna  Gold — "when  bicycles  is  new,  how  a  lot  of 
old  iron-bound  fairies,  wit'  maps  that'd  give  youse 
a  fit  of  sickness,  never  wastes  a  moment  in  wheelin' 
to  th'  front?" 

"Do  I  remember  when  bicycles  is  new  ?"  retorted 
Anna  Gold,  resentfully.  "How  old  do  youse  think 
I  be?" 

"Th'  Nailer's  right,"  said  Slimmy,  cutting  skil 
fully  in  with  a  view  to  keeping  the  peace.  "Th' 
reason  why  them  dames  breaks  in  on  bicycles,  an' 
other  new  deals,  is  because  it  attracts  attention ; 
an'  attractin'  attention  is  their  notion  of  bein'  great. 
Which  shows  that  they  don't  know  th'  difference 
between  bein'  famous  an'  bein'  notorious." 

Slimmy,  having  thus  declared  himself,  looked 
as  wise  as  a  treeful  of  owls. 

"Well,  w'at  is  th'  difference?"  demanded  Anna 
Gold. 

"What's  th'  difference  between  fame  an'  noto 
riety?"  repeated  Slimmy,  brow  lofty,  manner  high. 
"It's  th'  difference,  Goldie,  between  havin'  your 
picture  took  at  th'  joint  of  a  respectable  photog 
rapher,  an'  bein'  mugged  be  th'  coppers  at  th'  Cen 
tral  Office.  As  to  harem  skirts,  however,  I'm  like 
Mollie  there.  Gen'rally  speakin',  I  strings  wit'  th' 
loidies ;  but  when  they  springs  a  make-up  like  them 
harem  skirts,  I  pack  in.  Harem  skirts  is  where 
I  get  off." 

"Of  course,"  said  Eig  Kitty,  who  while  speaking 
170 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

little  spoke  always  to  the  point,  "youse  souses  un 
derstands  that  them  dolls  who  shakes  up  Coney 
has  an  ace  buried.  They're  simply  a  brace  of  roof- 
gardeners  framin'  up  a  little  ink.  I  s'pose  they  fig- 
gered  they'd  make  a  hit.  Did  they?" — this  was  in 
reply  to  Mollie  Squint,  who  had  asked  the  question. 
"Well,  if  becomin'  th'  reason  why  th'  bull  on  post 
rings  in  a  riot  call,  an'  brings  out  th'  resoives,  is 
your  idee  of  a  hit,  Mollie,  them  dames  is  certainly 
th'  big  scream." 

"Them  harem  skirts  won't  do!"  observed  the 
Nailer,  firmly ;  "youse  hear  me,  they  won't  clo !" 

"An'  that  goes  f'r  merry  widdy  hats,  too."  called 
out  the  Wop,  from  across  the  room.  "Only  yister- 
day  a  big  fat  baby  rounds  a  corner  on  me,  an' 
bang!  she  ketches  me  in  th'  lamp  wit'  th'  edge  av 
her  merry  widdy.  On  the  livil,  I  thought  it  was  a 
cross-cut  saw !  She  came  near  bloindin'  me  f'r 
loife.  As  I  side-steps,  a  rooshter's  tail  that's 
sproutin'  out  av  th'  roof,  puts  me  other  optic  on  th' 
blink.  I  couldn't  have  seen  a  shell  av  beer,  even  if 
Jimmy  here  was  payin'  fer  it.  Harem  skirts  is  bad ; 
but  th'  real  minace  is  merry  widdys." 

"I  thought  them  lids  was  called  in,"  remarked 
Slimmy. 

"If  they  was,"  returned  the  Wop,  "they  got 
bailed  out  ag'in.  Th'  one  I'm  nailed  wit'  is  half 
as  big  as  Beftnont  Pa-a-ark.  Youse  could  've  raced 
a  field  av  two-year  olds  on  it." 

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THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

"Well,"  remarked  the  Nailer,  resignedly,  "it's  th' 
fashion,  an'  it's  up  to  us,  I  s'pose,  to  stand  it.  That 
or  get  off  the  earth." 

"Who  invints  th'  fashions?"  and  here  the  Wop 
appealed  to  the  deep  experience  of  old  Jimmy. 

"Th'  French." 

Old  Jimmy — his  pension  had  just  been  paid — 
motioned  to  the  waiter  to  again  take  the  orders  all 
'round. 

"Th'  French.  They're  the  laddy-bucks  that 
shoves  'em  from  shore.  Say  'Fashion!'  an'  bing! 
th'  French  is  on  th'  job,  givin'  orders." 

"Thim  Frinch  're  th'  great  la-a-ads,"  commented 
the  Wop,  admiringly.  "There's  a  felly  on'y  this 
mornin'  tellin'  me  they  can  cook  shnails  so's  they're 
almosht  good  to  eat." 

"Tell  that  bug  to  guess  ag'in,  Wop,"  said  Mollie 
Squint.  "Snails  is  never  good  to  eat.  As  far  as 
them  French  are  concerned,  however,  I  go  wit'  old 
Jimmy.  They're  a  hot  proposition." 

Jack  Sirocco  had  been  walking  up  and  down,  his 
manner  full  of  uneasiness. 

"What's  wrong,  Jack?"  at  last  asked  old  Jimmy, 
who  had  observed  that  proprietor's  anxiety. 

Sirocco  explained  that  divers  gimlet-eyed  gentle 
men,  who  he  believed  were  emissaries  of  an  anti- 
vice  society,  had  been  in  the  place  for  hours. 

"They  only  now  screwed  out,"  continued  Si 
rocco.  Then,  dolefully :  "It'd  be  about  my  luck, 

172 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

just  as  I'm  beginnin'  to  get  a  little  piece  of  change 
for  myself,  to  have  some  of  them  virchoo-toutin' 
ginks  hand  me  a  wallop.  I  wonder  w'at  good  it 
does  'em  to  be  always  try  in'  to  knock  th'  block  off 
somebody.  I  ain't  got  nothin'  ag'inst  virchoo.  Vir- 
choo's  all  right  in  its  place.  But  so  is  vice." 

Old  Jimmy's  philosophy  began  manoeuvring  for 
the  high  ground. 

"This  vice  and  virtue  thing  makes  me  tired,"  he 
said;  "there's  too  much  of  it.  Also,  there's  plenty 
to  be  said  both  ways.  Th'  big  trouble  wit'  them 
anti-vice  dubs  is  that  they're  all  th'  time  connin' 
themselves.  They  feel  moral  when  it's  merely 
dyspepsia ;  they  think  they're  virchous  when  they're 
only  sick.  In  th'  end,  too,  virchoo  always  falls 
down.  Virchoo  never  puts  a  real  crimp  in  vice  yet. 
Virchoo's  a  sprinter;  an'  for  one  hundred  yards 
it  makes  vice  look  like  a  crab.  But  vice  is  a  stayer, 
an'  in  th'  Marathon  of  events  it  romps  in  winner. 
Virchoo  likes  a  rockin'-chair;  vice  puts  in  most  of 
its  time  on  its  feet.  Virchoo  belongs  to  th'  Union ; 
it's  for  th'  eight  hour  day,  with  holidays  an'  Sat 
urday  afternoons  off.  Vice  is  always  willin'  to 
break  th'  wage  schedule,  work  overtime  or  do  any- 
thin'  else  to  oblige.  Virchoo  wants  two  months  in 
th'  country  every  summer;  vice  never  asks  for  a 
vacation  since  th'  world  begins." 

The  Wop  loudly  cheered  old  Jimmy's  views. 
Sirocco,  however,  continued  gloomy. 

173 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"For,"  said  the  latter  with  a  sigh,  "I  can  feel 
it  that  them  anti-vice  guys  has  put  th'  high-sign 
on  me.  They'll  never  rest  now  until  they've  got  me 
number." 

Pretty  Agnes,  on  comin'  in,  had  taken  a  corner 
table  by  herself.  She  heard,  but  did  not  join  in 
the  talk.  She  even  left  untouched  the  glass  of  beer, 
which,  at  a  word  from  old  Jimmy,  a  waiter  had 
placed  before  her.  Silent  and  sad,  with  an  expres 
sion  which  spoke  of  trouble  present  or  trouble  on 
its  way,  she  sat  staring  into  smoky  space. 

"Wat's  wrong  wit'  her?"  whispered  Slimmy, 
who,  high-strung  and  sensitive,  could  be  worked 
upon  by  another's  troubles. 

"Why  don't  youse  ask  her  ?"  said  Big  Kitty. 

Slimmy  shook  a  doubtful  head.  "She  ain't  got 
no  use  for  me,"  he  explained,  "since  that  trouble 
wit'  Indian  Louie." 

"She  sure  couldn't  expect  you  an'  th'  Grabber," 
remarked  Anna  Gold,  quite  scandalized  at  the 
thought  of  such  unfairness,  "to  lay  dead,  while 
Louie  does  you  out  of  all  that  dough!" 

"It's  th'  rent,"  said  Jew  Yetta.  She  had  been 
canvassing  Pretty  Agnes  out  of  the  corners  of  her 
eyes.  "I  know  that  look  from  me  own  experience. 
She  can't  come  across  for  the  flat,  an'  some  bum 
of  an  agent  has  handed  her  a  notice." 

"There's  nothin'  in  that,"  declared  Mollie  Squint. 
"She  could  touch  me  for  th'  rent,  an'  she's  hep 

174 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

to  it."  Then,  in  reproof  of  the  questioning  looks 
of  Anna  Gold:  "Sure;  both  me  an'  Agnes  was 
stuck  on  Indian  Louie,  but  w'at  of  that?  Louie's 
gone;  an'  besides,  I  never  blames  her.  It's  me 
who's  th'  butt-in;  Agnes  sees  Louie  first." 

"Youse  're  wrong,  Yetta,"  spoke  up  the  Nailer, 
confidently.  "Agnes  ain't  worryin'  about  cush. 
There  ain't  a  better  producer  anywhere  than  Sam 
my  Hart.  No  one  ever  sees  Sammy  wit'out  a  roll." 

The  Nailer  lounged  across  to  Pretty  Agnes; 
Mollie  Squint,  whose  heart  was  kindly,  followed 
him. 

"W'y  don't  youse  lap  up  your  suds?"  queried  the 
Xailer,  pointing  to  the  beer.  Without  waiting  for 
a  return,  he  continued,  "Where's  Sammy?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  returned  Pretty  Agnes,  her 
manner  half  desperate.  "Nailer,  I'm  simply  fret 
ted  batty!" 

"Wat's  gone  crooked,  dear?"  asked  Mollie 
Squint,  soothingly.  "Youse  ain't  been  puttin'  on 
th'  mitts  wit'  Sammy?" 

"No,"  replied  Pretty  Agnes,  the  tears  beginning 
to  flow ;  "me  an'  Sammy's  all  right.  On'y  he  won't 
listen!"  Then  suddenly  pointing  with  her  finger, 
she  exclaimed;  "There!  It's  him  I'm  worryin' 
about !" 

The  Nailer  and  Mollie  Squint  glanced  in  the 
direction  indicated  by  Pretty  Agnes.  The  Ghost 
had  just  come  in  and  was  sidling  into  a  chair.  It 

175 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

must  be  admitted  that  there  was  much  in  his  ap 
pearance  to  dislike.  His  lips  were  loose,  his  eyes 
half  closed  and  sleepy,  while  his  chin  was  catlike, 
retreating,  unbased.  In  figure  he  was  undersized, 
slope-shouldered,  slouching.  When  he  spoke,  his 
voice  drawled,  and  the  mumbled  words  fell  half- 
formed  from  the  slack  angles  of  his  mouth.  He 
was  an  eel — a  human  eel — slippery,  slimy,  hard  to 
locate,  harder  still  to  hold.  To  find  him  you  would 
have  to  draw  off  all  the  water  in  the  pond,  and 
then  poke  about  in  the  ooze. 

"It's  him  that's  frettin'  me,"  repeated  Pretty 
Agnes.  "He's  got  me  wild!" 

The  Nailer  donned  an  expression,  cynical  and 
incredulous. 

"Wat's  this?"  said  he.  "W'y  Agnes,  youse  ain't 
soft  on  that  mutt,  be  youse?  Say,  youse  must  be 
gettin'  balmy!" 

"It  ain't  that,"  returned  Pretty  Agnes,  indig 
nantly.  "Do  youse  think  I'd  fall  for  such  a 
chromo?  I'd  be  bughouse!" 

"Bughouse  wouldn't  half  tell  it!"  exclaimed 
Mollie  Squint  fervently.  "Him?" — nodding  to 
wards  the  Ghost.  "W'y  he's  woise'n  a  wet  dog!" 

"Well,"  returned  the  puzzled  Nailer,  who  with 
little  imagination,  owned  still  less  of  sentimental 
breadth,  "if  youse  ain't  stuck  on  him,  how's  he 
managin'  to  fret  youse?  Show  me,  an'  I'll  take  a 
punch  at  his  lamp." 

176 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

"Punchin'  wouldn't  do  no  good,"  replied  Pretty 
Agnes,  resignedly.  "This  is  how  it  stands.  Sam 
my  an'  Big  Head's  gettin'  ready  to  do  a  schlam 
job.  They've  let  th'  Ghost  join  out  wit'  'em,  an' 
I  know  he's  goin'  to  give  'em  up." 

The  Nailer  looked  grave. 

"Unless  youse  've  got  somethin'  on  him,  Agnes." 
he  remonstrated,  "you  oughtn't  to  make  a  squawk 
like  that.  How  do  youse  know  he's  goin'  to 
rap?" 

"Cause  he  always  raps,"  she  cried  fiercely. 
"Where's  Mashier?  Where's  Marky  Price? 
Where's  Skinny  Goodstein?  Up  th'  river! — every 
mother's  son  of  'em!  An'  all  his  pals,  once;  every 
one!  He's  filled  in  writ'  th'  best  boys  that  ever 
cracked  a  bin.  An'  every  one  of  'em's  doin'  their 
bits,  while  he's  here  drinkin'  beer.  I  tell  youse  th' 
Ghost's  a  snitch!  Youse  can  see  'Copper'  written 
on  his  face." 

"If  I  t'ought  so,"  growled  the  Nailer,  an  evil 
shine  in  his  beady  eyes,  "I'd  croak  him  right  here." 
Then,  as  offering  a  solution:  "If  youse  're  so  sure 
he's  a  stool,  w'y  don't  youse  tail  him  an'  see  if  he 
makes  a  meet  wit'  any  bulls?" 

"Tail  nothin'!"  scoffed  Pretty  Agnes,  bitterly; 
"me  mind's  made  up.  All  I'll  do  is  wait.  If  Sam 
my  falls,  it'll  be  th'  Ghost's  last  rap.  I  know  a 
party  who's  crazy  gone  on  me.  For  two  weeks 
I've  been  handin'  him  th'  ice  pitcher.  All  I  has  to 

177 


do  is  soften  up  a  little,  an'  he'll  cook  th'  Ghost 
th'  minute  I  says  th'  woid." 

Pretty  Agnes,  as  though  the  sight  of  the  Ghost 
were  too  much  for  her  feelings,  left  the  place.  The 
Ghost  himself,  appeared  uneasy,  and  didn't  re 
main  long. 

The  Nailer  turned  soberly  to  Mollie  Squint. 
"Do  youse  t'ink,"  said  he,  "there's  anythin'  in  that 
crack  of  Agnes?" 

"Search  me !"  returned  Mollie  Squint,  conserv 
atively.  "I  ain't  sayin'  a  woid." 

"It's  funny  about  youse  skoits,"  remarked  the 
Nailer,  his  manner  an  imitation  of  old  Jimmy's. 
"Here's  Agnes  talkin'  of  havin'  th'  Ghost  trimmed 
in  case  he  tips  off  Sammy  to  th'  dicks,  an'  yet  when 
Slimmy  an'  th'  Grabber  puts  Indian  Louie  over  th' 
jump,  neither  Agnes  nor  you  ever  so  much  as 
yelps !" 

"You  don't  understand,"  said  Mollie  Squint,  tol 
erantly.  "Sammy's  nice  to  Agnes.  Louie?  Th' 
best  he  ever  hands  us  is  to  sting  us  for  our  rolls, 
an'  then  go  blow  'em  on  that  blonde.  There's  a 
big  difference,  Nailer,  if  youse  could  only  see  it." 

"Well,"  replied  the  Nailer,  who  boasted  a  heart 
untouched,  "all  I  can  say  is  youse  dolls  are  too 
many  for  me !  You've  got  me  wingin'." 

Midnight ! 

The  theatre  of  operations  was  a  cigar  store,  in 
Canal  Street  near  the  Bowery.  The  Ghost  was 

178 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

on  the  outside.  The  safe  was  a  back  number;  to 
think  of  soup  would  have  been  paying  it  a  compli 
ment.  After  an  hour's  work  with  a  can-opener, 
Sammy  and  Big  Head  declared  themselves  within 
ten  minutes  of  the  money.  All  that  remained 
was  to  batter  in  the  inner-lining-  of  the  box. 

Big  Head  cocked  a  sudden  and  suspicious  ear. 

"What's  that  ?"  he  whispered. 

Sammy  had  just  reversed  the  can-opener,  for  an 
attack  upon  that  sheet-iron  lining.  He  paused  m 
mid-swing,  and  listened. 

"It's  a  pinch,"  he  cried,  crashing  down  the  heavy 
iron  tool  with  a  cataract  of  curses.  "It's  a  pinch, 
an'  th'  Ghost  is  in  on  it.  Agnes  had  him  right!" 

It  was  a  pinch  sure  enough.  Even  as  Sammy 
spoke,  Rocheford  and  Wertheimer  of  the  Central 
Office  were  covering  them  with  their  pistols. 

"Hands  up!"  came  from  Wertheimer. 

"You've  got  us  bang  right!"  sighed  Big 
Head. 

Outside  they  found  Cohen,  also  of  the  Central 
Office,  with  the  ruffles  on  the  Ghost. 

"That's  only  a  throw-off,"  sneered  Sammy, 
pointing  to  the  bracelets. 

The  Ghost  began  to  whine.  The  loose  lips  be 
came  looser  than  ever,  the  drooping  lids  drooped 
lower  still. 

"W'y,  Sammy,"  he  remonstrated  weepingly, 
"youse  don't  t'ink  I'd  go  an'  give  youse  up!" 

179 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"That's  all  right,"  retorted  Sammy,  with  sullen 
emphasis.  "Youse'll  get  yours,  Ghost." 

Had  the  Ghost  been  wise  he  would  have  re 
mained  in  the  Tombs;  it  was  his  best  chance.  But 
the  Ghost  was.  not  wise.  Within  the  week  he  was 
walking  the  streets,  and  trying  to  explain  a  free 
dom  which  so  sharply  contrasted  with  the  caged 
condition  of  Big  Head  and  Sammy  Hart.  Gang 
land  turned  its  back  on  him;  his  explanations  were 
not  received.  And,  sluggish  and  thick  as  he  was, 
Gangland  made  him  feel  it. 

It  was  black  night  in  University  Place.  The 
Ghost  was  gumshoeing  his  way  towards  the  Bridge 
Saloon.  A  taxicab  came  slowly  crabbing  along  the 
curb.  It  stopped;  a  quick  figure  slipped  out  and, 
muzzle  on  the  very  spot,  put  a  bullet  through  the 
base  of  the  Ghost's  brain. 

The  quick  figure  leaped  back  into  the  cab.  The 
door  slammed,  and  the  cab  dashed  off  into  the  dark 
ness  at  racing  speed. 

In  that  splinter  of  time  required  to  start  the 
cab  you  might  have  seen — had  you  been  near 
enough — twro  white  small  hands  clutch  with  a  kind 
of  rapturous  acceptance  at  the  quick  figure,  as  it 
sprang  into  the  cab,  and  heard  the  eager  voice  of 
a  woman  saying 

"Promise  for  promise,  and  word  for  word! 
Who  wouldn't  give  soul  and  body  for  th'  death  of 
a  snitch? — for  a  snake  that  will  bite  no  more?" 

180 


IX. 

LITTLE  BOW  KUM 

Since  then  no  Chinaman  will  go  into  the  room.  I 
had  this  from  Loui  Fook,  himself  an  eminent  mem 
ber  of  the  On  Leon  Tong  and  a  leading  merchant 
of  Chinatown.  Loui  Fook  didn't  pretend  to  know 
of  his  own  knowledge,  but  spoke  by  hearsay.  He 
said  that  the  room  was  haunted.  No  one  would  live 
there,  being  too  wise,  although  the  owner  had  low 
ered  the  rent  from  twenty  dollars  a  month  to  ten. 
Ten  monthly  dollars  should  be  no  inducement  to 
live  in  a  place  where,  at  odd,  not  to  say  untoward 
hours,  you  hear  sounds  of  scuffling  and  wing-beat 
ing,  such  as  is  made  by  a  chicken  when  its  head  is 
chopped  off.  Also,  little  Bow  Kum's  blood  still 
stains  the  floor  in  a  broad  red  patch,  and  refuses  to 
give  way  to  soap  and  water.  The  wife  of  the 
Italian  janitor — who  cannot  afford  to  be  supersti 
tious,  and  bemoans  a  room  unrented — has  scrubbed 
half  through  the  boards  in  unavailing  efforts  to 
wash  away  the  dull  red  splotch. 

Detective  Raphael  of  the  Central  Office  heard  of 
the  ghost.  He  thought  it  would  make  for  the  moral 
uplift  of  Chinatown  to  explode  so  foolish  a  tale. 

181 


THE   APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Yong  Dok  begged  Raphael  not  to  visit  the  haunted 
room  where  the  blood  of  little  Bow  Kum  spoke  in 
dumb,  dull  crimson  from  the  floor.  It  would  set 
the  ghosts  to  talking. 

"Then  come  with  me,  and  act  as  interpreter," 
quoth  Raphael,  and  he  threw  Yong  Dok  over  his 
heavy  shoulder  and  began  to  climb  the  stairs. 

Yong  Dok  fainted,  and  lay  as  limp  as  a  wet  bath 
towrel.  Loui  Fook  said  that  Yong  Dok  would 
die  if  taken  to  the  haunted  room,  so  Raphael  for 
bore  and  set  him  doA  /n.  In  an  hour  Yong  Dok  had 
measurably  recovered,  but  Tchin  Foo  insists  that  he 
hasn't  been  the  same  man  since. 

Low  Fong,  Low  Tching  and  Chu  Wah,  three 
hatchet  men  belonging  to  the  Four  Brothers,  were 
charged  with  the  murder.  But  the  coroner  let  Chu 
Wah  go,  and  the  special  sessions  jury  disagreed 
as  to  Low  Fong  and  Low  Tching;  and  so  one  way 
and  another  they  were  all  set  free. 

It  is  difficult  to  uncover  evidence  against  a  China 
man.  They  never  talk,  and  their  faces  are  as  void 
of  expression  as  the  wrong  side  of  a  tombstone. 
In  only  one  way  does  a  Chinaman  betray  emotion. 
When  guilty,  and  pressed  upon  by  danger,  a  pulse 
beats  on  the  under  side  of  his  arm,  just  above  the 
elbow.  This  is  among  the  golden  secrets  known 
to  what  Central  Office  men  do  duty  along  Pell, 
Mott  and  Doyers  streets,  but  for  obvious  reasons 
it  cannot  be  used  in  court. 

182 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Although  the  white  devils'  law  failed,  the  Chi 
nese  law  was  not  so  powerless.  Because  of  that 
murder,  eight  Four  Brothers  and  five  On  Leon 
Tongs  have  been  shot  dead.  Also,  slippered  feet 
have  stolen  into  the  sleeping  rooms  of  offensive 
ones,  as  they  dreamed  of  China  the  Celestial  far 
away  beyond  the  sunset,  and  unseen  bird-claw  fing 
ers  have  turned  on  the  white  devils'  gas.  In  this 
way  a  dozen  more  have  died.  They  have  awakened 
in  Chinatown  to  the  merits  of  the  white  devils'  gas 
as  a  method  of  assassination.  It  bids  fair  to  take 
the  place  of  the  automatic  gun,  just  as  the  latter 
shoved  aside  the  old-time  barbarous  hatchet. 

Little  Bow  Kum  had  reached  her  nineteenth 
year  when  she  was  killed.  Her  husband,  Tchin 
Len,  was  worth  $50,000.  He  was  more  than  twice 
as  old  as  little  Bow  Kum,  and  is  still  in  Mott  Street 
waiting  for  her  spirit  to  return  and  strangle  her 
destroyers.  This  will  one  day  come  to  pass,  and 
he  is  waiting  for  that  day.  Tchin  Len  has  another 
wife  in  Canton,  but  he  does  not  go  back  to  her, 
preferring  to  live  in  Chinatown  with  the  memory 
of  his  little  lost  Bow  Kum. 

Little  Bow  Kum  was  born  in  the  Canton  dis 
trict,  China.  Her  father's  name  was  Wong  Hi. 
Her  mother's  name  doesn't  matter,  because  mothers 
do  not  amount  to  much  in  China.  As  she  lay  in 
her  mother's  lap,  a  chubby,  wheat-hued  baby,  they 

183 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

named  her  Bow  Kum,  which  means  Sweet  Flower, 
for  they  knew  she  would  be  very  beautiful. 

When  little  Bow  Kum  was  five  years  old,  Wong 
Hi,  her  father,  sold  her  for  $300.  Wong  Hi  was 
poor,  and  $300  is  a  Canton  fortune.  Also,  the 
sale  had  its  moral  side,  since  everyone  knows  that 
children  are  meant  to  be  a  prop  and  support  to  their 
parents. 

Little  Bow  Kum  was  bought  and  sold,  as  was 
well  understood  by  both  Wong  Hi,  the  father,  and 
the  man  who  chinked  down  his  hard  three  hun 
dred  silver  dollars  as  the  price,  with  the  purpose 
of  rearing  her  to  a  profession  which,  while  not 
without  honor  among  Orientals,  is  frowned  upon 
by  the  white  devils,  and  never  named  by  them  in 
best  society.  Much  pains  were  bestowed  upon  her 
education;  for  her  owner  held  that  in  the  trade 
which  at  the  age  of  fifteen  she  was  to  take  up,  she 
should  be  able  to  paint,  embroider,  quote  Confucius, 
recite  verses,  and  in  all  things  be  a  mirror  of  the 
graces.  Thus  she  would  be  more  valuable,  being 
more  attractive. 

Little  Bow  Kum  accepted  her  fate  and  made  no 
protest,  feeling  no  impulse  so  to  do.  She  knew  that 
she  had  been  sold,  and  knew  her  destiny;  but  she 
felt  no  shock,  was  stricken  by  no  desire  to  escape. 
What  had  happened  and  would  happen,  had  been 
for  hundreds  and  thousands  of  years  the  life  story 
of  a  great  feminine  fraction  of  her  people.  Where- 

184 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

fore,  the  thought  was  at  home  in  her  blood;  her 
nature  bowed  to  and  embraced  it. 

Of  course,  from  the  white  devils'  view-point  the 
fate  designed  for  little  Bow  Kum  was  as  the  sub 
limation  of  the  immoral.  But  you  must  remember 
that  morality  is  always  a  question  of  geography 
and  sometimes  a  question  of  race.  Climates,  tem 
peratures,  also  play  their  part. 

Then,  too,  there  is  that  element  of  support.  In 
the  tropics,  where  life  is  lazy,  easy,  and  one  may 
pick  a  dinner  from  every  tree,  man  is  polygamous. 
In  the  ice  locked  arctics,  where  one  spears  his  din 
ner  out  of  the  cold,  reluctant  sea,  and  goes  days 
and  days  without  it,  man  is  polyandrous,  and  one 
wife  has  many  husbands.  In  the  temperate  zone, 
where  life  is  neither  soft  nor  hard  and  yet  folk 
work  to  live,  man  is  monogamous,  and  one  wife  to 
one  husband  is  the  only  good  form. 

Great  is  latitude! 

Take  the  business  of  steeping  the  senses  in 
drinks  or  drugs.  That  eternal  quantity  of  latitude 
still  worms  its  way  into  the  equation.  In  the  arc 
tic  zone  they  drink  raw  alcohol,  in  the  north  tem 
perate  whiskey,  in  the  south  temperate  wine,  while 
in  the  tropics  they  give  up  drinking  and  take  to 
opium,  hasheesh  and  cocaine. 

Little  Bow  Kum  watched  her  fifteenth  year  ap 
proach — that  year  when  she  would  take  up  her 
profession — without  shame,  scandal  or  alarm. 

185 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Had  you  tried  to  show  her  the  horrors  of  her  situ 
ation,  she  wouldn't  have  understood.  She  was 
beautiful  beyond  beauty.  This  she  knew  very 
well,  and  was  pleased  to  have  her  charms  con 
fessed.  Her  owner  told  her  she  was  a  lamp  of 
love,  and  that  he  would  not  sell  her  under  $3,000. 
This  of  itself  was  the  prettiest  of  compliments, 
since  he  had  never  before  asked  more  than  $2,000 
for  a  girl.  Koi  Ton,  two  years  older  than  herself, 
had  brought  just  $2,000;  and  Koi  Ton  was  ac 
knowledged  to  be  a  vision  from  heaven.  And  so 
when  Bow  Kum  learned  that  her  price  was  to  be 
$3,000,  a  glow  overspread  her — a  glow  which 
comes  to  beauty  when  it  feels  itself  supreme. 

Little  Bow  Kum  was  four  feet  tall,  and  weighed 
only  seventy  pounds.  Her  color  was  the  color 
of  old  ivory — that  is,  if  you  can  imagine  old  ivory 
with  the  flush  and  blush  of  life.  She  had  rose- 
red  lips,  onyx  eyes,  and  hair  as  black  as  a  crow's 
wing.  One  day  her  owner  went  mad  with  opium. 
As  he  sat  and  looked  at  her,  and  her  star-like 
beauty  grew  upon  him,  he  struck  her  down  with 
a  bamboo  staff.  This  frightened  him;  for  he  saw 
that  if  he  kept  her  he  would  kill  her  because  of  her 
loveliness.  So,  knowing  himself  and  fearing  her 
beauty,  he  sent  little  Bow  Kum  to  San  Francisco, 
and  never  laid  eyes  on  her  again. 

Having  ripened  into  her  fifteenth  year,  and  the 
value  of  girls  being  up  in  San  Francisco,  little 

186 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

Bow  Kum  brought  the  price — $3,000 — which  her 
owner  had  fixed  for  her.  She  kissed  the  hand  of 
Low  Hee  Tong,  her  new  owner;  and,  having  been 
adorned  to  the  last  limit  of  Chinese  coquetry,  went 
with  him  to  a  temple,  dedicated  to  some  Mongolian 
Venus,  which  he  maintained  in  Ross  Alley.  Here 
little  Bow  Kum  lived  for  nearly  four  years. 

Low  Hee  Tong,  the  Ross  Alley  owner  of  little 
Bow  Kum,  got  into  trouble  with  the  police.  Some 
thing  he  did  or  failed  to  do — probably  the  latter 
— vastly  disturbed  them.  With  that,  waxing  moral, 
they  decided  that  Low  Hee  Tong's  Temple  of  Venus 
in  Ross  Alley  .was  an  eyesore,  and  must  be  wiped 
out. 

And  so  they  pulled  it. 

Little  Bow  Kum — so  small,  so  much  the  rose- 
flower  which  her  name  implied — aroused  the  con 
cern  of  the  judge.  He  gave  her  to  a  Christian 
mission,  which  years  before  had  pitched  its  tent 
in  Frisco's  Chinatown  with  a  hope  of  saving  Mon 
gol  souls,  which  hope  had  failed.  Thereafter  little 
Bow  Kum  lived  at  the  mission,  and  not  in  Ross 
Alley,  and  was  chaste  according  to  the  ice-bound 
ideals  of  the  white  devils. 

The  mission  was  ruled  over  by  a  middle-aged 
matron  with  a  Highland  name.  This  good  woman 
was  beginning  to  wonder  what  she  should  do  with 
little  Bow  Kum,  when  that  almond-eyed  floweret 
came  preferring  a  request.  Little  Bow  Kum,  while 

187 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

dwelling  in  Ross  Alley,  had  met  Tchin  Len  and 
thought  him  nice.  Tchin  Len  owned  a  truck-farm 
near  Stockton,  and  was  rich.  Would  the  Highland 
matron,  in  charge  of  the  mission,  write  a  letter  to 
Tchin  Len,  near  Stockton,  and  ask  that  bewitching 
truck-gardener  to  come  down  and  see  little  Bow 
Kum? 

"Because,"  explained  little  Bow  Kum,  in  her 
peculiar  English,  "I  likee  Tchin  Len  to  mally  me." 

The  Highland  matron  considered.  A  husband 
in  the  case  of  little  Bow  Kum  would  supply  a  long- 
felt  want.  Also,  no  harm,  even  if  no  good,  could 
flow  from  Tchin  Len's  visit,  since  she,  the  High 
land  matron,  sternly  purposed  being  present  while 
Tchin  Leri  and  little  Bow  Kum  conferred. 

The  matron  wrote  the  letter,  and  Tchin  Len 
came  down  to  San  Francisco.  He  and  little  Bow 
Kum  talked  quietly  in  a  language  which  the  man 
aging  matron  did  not  understand.  But  she  knew 
the  signs;  and  therefore  when,  at  the  close  of  the 
conversation,  they  explained  that  they  had  decided 
upon  a  wedding,  she  was  not  astonished.  She  ^ave 
them  her  blessing,  about  which  they  cared  nothing, 
and  they  pledged  each  other  their  faith  after  the 
Chinese  manner — which  is  curious,  but  unimpor 
tant  here — about  which  they  cared  much. 

Tchin  Len  went  back  to  his  Stockton  truck  gar 
den,  to  put  his  house  in  order  against  the  wifely 
advent  of  little  Bow  Kum.  It  is  not  of  record  that 

188 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Tchin  Len  said  anything  about  his  Canton  wife. 
The  chances  are  that  he  didn't.  A  Chinaman  is 
no  great  hand  to  mention  his  domestic  affairs  to 
anybody.  Moreover,  a  wife  more  or  less  means 
nothing  to  him.  It  is  precisely  the  sort  of  thing 
he  would  forget;  or,  remembering,  make  no  refer 
ence  to,  lest  you  vote  him  a  bore.  What  looks  like 
concealment  is  often  only  politeness,  and  good- 
breeding  sometimes  wears  the  face  of  fraud. 

It  was  settled  that  Tchin  Len  should  marry  little 
Bow  Kum,  and  the  latter,  aided  and  abetted  by  the 
watchful  mission  matron,  waited  for  the  day. 
Affairs  had  reached  this  stage  when  the  unex 
pected  came  rapping  at  the  door.  Low  Hee  Tong, 
who  paid  $3,000  for  little  Bow  Kum  and  claimed 
to  own  her,  had  been  keeping  an  eye  on  his  delicate 
chattel.  She  might  be  living  at  the  mission,  but  he 
no  less  bore  her  upon  the  sky-line  of  his  calcula 
tions.  Likewise  he  knew  about  the  wedding  mak 
ing  ready  with  Tchin  Len.  He  didn't  object.  He 
simply  went  to  Tchin  Len  and  asked  for  $3,000. 
It  was  little  enough,  he  said;  especially  when  one 
considered  that — excluding  all  others — he  would 
convey  to  Tchin  Len  in  perpetuity  every  right  in  and 
to  little  Bow  Kum,  who  was  so  beautiful  that  she 
was  hated  by  the  moon. 

Tchin  Len  said  the  price  was  low  enough ;  that  is, 
if  Low  Hee  Tong  possessed  any  interest  in  little 
Bow  Kum  to  convey,  which  he  doubted.  Tchin 

189 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

Len  explained  that  he  would  talk  thing's  over  with 
the  mission  matron  of  the  Highland  name,  and  later 
let  Low  Hee  Tong  know. 

Low  Hee  Tong  said  that  this  arrangement  was 
agreeable,  so  long  as  it  was  understood  that  he 
would  kill  both  Tchin  Len  and  little  Bow  Kum  in 
case  he  didn't  get  the  money. 

Tchin  Len,  after  telling  little  Bow  Kum,  laid  the 
business  before  the  mission  matron  with  the  High 
land  name.  Naturally,  she  was  shocked.  She 
said  that  she  was  amazed  at  the  effrontery  of  Low 
Hee  Tong!  Under  the  white  devils'  law  he  couldn't 
possess  and  therefore  couldn't  pretend  to  any  title 
in  little  Bow  Kum.  Tchin  Len  would  be  wild  to 
pay  him  $3,000.  Low  Hee  Tong  was  lucky  to  be 
alive! — only  the  mission  matron  didn't  put  it  in 
precisely  these  words.  If  Tchin  Len  had  $3,000 
which  he  didn't  need,  he  might  better  contribute  it 
to  the  mission  which  had  sheltered  his  little  Bow 
Kum.  It  would  be  criminal  to  lavish  it  upon  a 
yellow  Pagan,  who  threatened  to  shed  blood. 

Tchin  Len  heard  this  with  pigtailed  phlegm  and 
politeness,  and  promised  to  think  about  it.  He  said 
that  it  would  give  him  no  joy  to  endow  Low  Hee 
Tong  with  $3,000;  he  was  willing  that  much 
should  be  understood. 

Little  Bow  Kum  was  placidly  present  at  the  dis 
cussion.  When  it  ended  she  placidly  reminded 
Tchin  Len  that  he  knew  what  she  knew,  namely, 

190 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

that  he  in  all  probability,  and  she  in  all  certainty, 
would  be  killed  if  Low  Hee  Tong's  claim  were 
refused.  Tchin  Len  sighed  and  confessed  that 
this  was  true.  For  all  that,  influenced  by  the 
mission  matron  with  the  Highland  name,  he  was 
loth  to  give  up  the  $3,000.  Little  Bow  Kum  bent 
her  flower-like  head.  Tchin  Len's  will  was  her 
law,  though  as  the  penalty  of  such  sweet  submis 
sion  death,  bitter  death,  should  be  her  portion. 

Tchin  Len  and  the  mission  matron  held  several 
talks ;  and  Tchin  Len  and  Low  Hee  Tong  held  sev 
eral  talks.  But  the  latter  did  not  get  the  $3,000. 
Still  he  threatened  and  hoped  on.  It  was  beyond 
his  Chinese  comprehension  that  Tchin  Len  could 
be  either  so  dishonest  or  so  dull  as  not  to  pay  him 
that  money.  Tchin  Len  was  rich,  and  no  child. 
Yes ;  he  would  pay.  And  Low  Hee  Tong,  confi 
dent  of  his  position,  made  ready  his  opium  lay 
out  for  a  good  smoke. 

The  mission  matron  and  Tchin  Len  hit  upon  a 
plan.  Tchin  Len  would  privily  marry  little  Bow 
Kum — that  must  precede  all  else.  Upon  that  point 
of  wedding  bells,  the  mission  matron  was  as  move 
less  as  Gibraltar.  The  knot  tied,  Tchin  Len  should 
sell  out  his  Stockton  truck-farm  and  move  to  New 
York.  Then  he  was  to  send  money,  and  the  mis 
sion  matron  was  to  outfit  little  Bow  Kum  and  ship 
her  East.  With  the  wretched  Low  Hee  Tong  in 
San  Francisco,  and  Tchin  Len  and  little  Bow  Kum 

191 


THE    APACHES   OF   NEW    YORK 

in  far  New  York,  an  intervening  stretch  of  three 
thousand  five  hundred  miles  might  be  expected  to 
keep  the  peace. 

Tchin  Len  and  little  Bow  Kum  were  married.  A 
month  later,  Tchin  Len  left  for  New  York  with 
$50,000  under  his  bridal  blouse.  He  settled  down 
in  Mott  Street,  dispatched  New  York  exchange 
for  $800  to  the  mission  matron,  who  put  little 
Bow  Kum  aboard  the  Overland  Express  at  Oak 
land,  together  with  three  trunks  and  a  ticket.  Lit 
tle  Bow  Kum  arrived  in  due  and  proper  time,  and 
Tchin  Len — who  met  her  in  Jersey  City — after 
saluting  her  in  the  Chinese  fashion,  which  is  cold 
and  lacks  enthusiasm,  bore  her  away  to  Seventeen 
Mott,  where  he  had  prepared  for  her  a  nest. 

There  are  three  septs  among  Chinamen.  These 
are  the  On  Leon  Tong,  the  Hip  Sing  Tong  and 
the  Four  Brothers.  The  two  first  are  associations; 
the  last  is  a  fraternity.  You  can  join  the  Hip  Sing 
Tong  or  the  On  Leon  Tong.  Your  sole  chance  of 
becoming  a  Four  Brother  lies  in  being  born  into  the 
tribe. 

Loui  Fook  told  me  these  things  late  one  night 
in  the  Port  Arthur  restaurant,  where  the  red  lamps 
glow  and  there  is  an  all-pervading  smell  of  pre 
served  ginger,  and  added  that  the  Four  Brothers 
was  very  ancient.  Its  sources  were  lost  in  the 
dimmest  vistas  of  Chinese  antiquity,  said  Loui 
Fook. 

192 


THE   APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

"One  thousand  years  old  ?"  I  asked. 

"Much  older." 

"Five  thousand?" 

"Much  older." 

"Ten  thousand?" 

"Maybe!" 

From  which  I  inferred  that  the  Four  Brothers 
had  beheld  the  dawn  and  death  of  many  centuries. 

Every  member  of  the  Four  Brothers  is  to  be 
known  by  his  name.  When  you  cut  the  slippered 
trail  of  a  Chinaman  whose  name  begins  with  Low 
or  Chu  or  Tching  or  Quong,  that  Chinaman  is  a 
Four  Brothers.  A  Chinaman's  first  name  is  his 
family  name.  In  this  respect  he  runs  counter  to 
the  habit  of  the  white  devils;  just  as  he  does  in 
the  matter  of  shirts,  which  the  white  devil  tucks 
in  and  the  Chinaman  does  not.  Wherefore,  the 
names  of  Low,  Chu,  Tching  and  Quong,  every 
where  the  evidence  of  the  Four  Brothers,  are  fam 
ily  names. 

Loui  Fook  gave  me  the  origin  of  the  Four 
Brothers — he  himself  is  an  On  Leon  Tong.  Many 
thousands  of  years  ago  a  Chinaman  was  travelling. 
Dusty,  weary,  he  sat  down  by  a  well.  His  name 
was  Low.  Another  travel-stained  Chinaman  joined 
him.  They  talked,  and  liked  each  other  much. 
The  second  traveler's  name  was  Chu.  Then  a  third 
sat  down,  and  the  three  talked  and  liked  each  other 
much.  His  name  was  Tching.  Lastly,  came  a 

193 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

fourth  Chinaman,  and  the  weary  dust  lay  deep  upon 
his  sandals.  His  name  was  Quong.  He  was 
equally  talked  to  by  the  others,  and  by  them  equally 
well  liked.  They — the  four — decided,  as  they 
parted,  that  forever  and  forever  they  and  their 
descendants  should  be  as  brothers. 

Wherefore  the  Four  Brothers. 

Low  Hee  Tong  was  a  member  of  the  Four 
Brothers — a  descendant  of  the  earliest  Chinaman 
at  that  well,  back  in  the  world's  morning.  When 
he  found  that  Tchin  Len  had  married  little  Bow 
Kum  and  stolen  her  away  to  New  York,  his  opium 
turned  bitter  and  he  lost  his  peace  of  mind.  Low 
Hee  Tong  wrote  a  Chinese  letter,  giving  the  story 
of  his  injuries,  and  sent  it  via  the  white  devils' 
mails  to  Low  Hee  Jit,  chief  of  the  Four  Brothers. 

Low  Hee  Jit  laid  the  case  before  Lee  Tcin  Kum, 
chief  of  the  On  Leon  Tong.  The  wise  men  of  the 
On  Leon  Tong  appointed  a  hearing.  Low  Hee  Jit 
came  with  the  wise  men  of  the  Four  Brothers  to 
the  company  rooms  of  the  On  Leon  Tong.  Tchin 
Len  and  little  Bow  Kum  were  there.  The  question 
was,  should  the  On  Leon  Tong  command  Tchin 
Len  to  pay  Low  Hee  Tong  $3,000 — the  price  of 
little  Bow  Kum? 

Lee  Tcin  Kum  and  the  wise  men  of  the  On  Leon 
Tong,  after  long  debate,  said  that  Tchin  Len  should 
pay  Low  Hee  Tong  nothing.  And  they  argued 
after  this  wise.  The  white  devils'  law  had  taken 

194 


THE   APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

hold  of  little  Bow  Kum,  and  destroyed  Low  Hee 
Tong's  title.  She  was  no  longer  his  property.  She 
might  marry  whom  she  would,  and  the  bridegroom 
owe  Low  Hee  Tong  nothing. 

This  was  in  the  On  Leon  Tong's  Company  rooms 
in  Mott  Street. 

Low  Hee  Jit  and  the  wise  men  of  the  Four 
Brothers  opposed  this.  Particularly  they  declined 
the  white  devils'  laws  as  of  controlling  pith  and 
moment.  Why  should  a  Chinaman  heed  the  white 
devils'  laws?  The  white  devils  were  the  barbarous 
inferiors  of  the  Chinese.  The  latter  as  a  race  had 
long  ago  arrived.  For  untold  ages  they  had  been 
dwelling  upon  the  highest  peaks  of  all  possible 
human  advancement.  The  white  devils,  centuries 
behind,  were  still  blundering  about  among  the  foot 
hills  far  below.  It  was  an  insult,  between  China 
man  and  Chinaman,  for  Lee  Tcin  Kum  and  the 
wise  men  of  the  On  Leon  Tong  to  quote  the  white 
devils'  laws,  or  assume  to  yield  them  respect. 

With  this  the  council  broke  up. 

War  was  declared  by  the  Four  Brothers  against 
the  On  Leon  Tong,  and  the  dead-walls  of  China 
town  were  plastered  with  the  declaration.  Since 
the  white  devils  could  not  read  Chinese,  they  knew 
nothing  of  all  this.  But  the  On  Leon  Tong  knew, 
and  the  Four  Brothers  knew,  and  both  sides  began 
bringing  in  their  hatchet-men. 

When  a  Chinaman  is  bent  on  killing,  he  hires  an 
195 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

assassin.  This  is  not  cowardice,  but  convenience. 
The  assassin  never  lives  in  the  town  where  the  kill 
ing  is  to  occur.  He  is  always  imported.  This  is  to 
make  detection  difficult.  The  Four  Brothers  and  the 
On  Leon  Tong  brought  in  their  hatchet-men  from 
Chicago,  from  Boston,  from  Pittsburg,  from  Phila 
delphia. 

Some  impression  of  the  extent  of  this  conscrip 
tion  might  be  gathered  from  the  following :  When 
last  New  Year  the  On  Leon  Tong  gave  a  public 
dinner  at  the  Port  Arthur,  thirty  hatchet-men  were 
on  the  roof  and  eighty  in  the  street.  This  was  to 
head  off  any  attempt  the  Four  Brothers  might  make 
to  blow  that  banquet  up.  I  received  the  above  from 
an  esteemed  friend  of  mine,  who  was  a  guest  at  the 
dinner,  but  left  when  told  what  profuse  arrange 
ments  had  been  made  to  insure  his  skin. 

Tchin  Len  and  little  Bow  Kum  kept  up  the  fires 
of  their  love  at  Seventeen  Mott.  They  took  their 
daily  chop  suey  and  sharkfin,  not  to  mention  their 
bird's-nest  soup,  across  the  way  at  Twenty-two  with 
their  friends,  Sam  Lee  and  Yong  Dok. 

It  was  a  showery,  August  afternoon.  Tchin  Len 
had  been  all  day  at  his  store,  and  little  Bow  Kum 
was  sitting  alone  in  their  room.  Dismal  as  was 
the  day  outside,  the  room  showed  pleasant  and 
bright.  There  were  needlework  screens,  hangings 
of  brocade  and  silk,  vases  of  porcelain,  statuettes 
in  jade.  The  room  was  rich — a  scene  of  color  and 
Chinese  luxury. 

196 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

Little  Bow  Kum  was  the  room's  best  ornament — 
with  her  jade  bracelets,  brocade  jacket,  silken 
trousers,  golden  girdle,  and  sandaled  feet  as  small 
as  the  feet  of  a  child  of  six.  It  would  be  twenty 
minutes  before  the  Chinese  dinner  hour,  when  she 
was  to  join  Tchin  Len  across  the  street,  and  she 
drew  out  pen  and  ink  and  paper  that  she  might 
practice  the  white  devils'  way  of  writing;  and  all 
with  the  thought  of  some  day  sending  a  letter  of 
love  and  gratitude  to  the  mission  matron  with  the 
Highland  name. 

So  engrossed  was  little  Bow  Kum  that  she  ob 
served  nothing  of  the  soft  opening  of  the  door, 
or  the  dark  savage  face  which  peered  through. 
The  murderer  crept  upon  her  as  noiselessly  as  a 
shadow.  There  was  a  hawk-like  swoop.  About 
the  slender  throat  closed  a  grip  of  steel.  The  fin 
gers  were  long,  slim,  strong.  She  could  not  cry 
out.  The  dull  glimmer  of  a  Chinese  knife — it  was 
later  picked  up  in  the  hall,  a-drip  with  blood — 
flashed  before  her  frightened  eyes.  She  made  a 
convulsive  clutch,  and  the  blade  was  drawn  horribly 
through  her  baby  fingers. 

Over  across,  not  one  hundred  feet  away,  sat 
Tchin  Len  and  his  two  friends  in  the  eating  room 
of  Twenty-two.  It  was  a  special  day,  and  they 
would  have  chicken  and  rice.  This  made  them 
impatient  for  the  advent  of  little  Bow  Kum.  She 
was  already  ten  minutes  behind  the  hour.  His. 

197 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

friends  rallied  Tchin  Len  about  little  Bow  Kum, 
and  evolved  a  Chinese  joke  to  the  effect  that  he  was 
a  slave  to  her  beauty  and  had  made  a  foot-rest  of 
his  heart  for  her  little  feet.  Twenty  minutes  went 
by,  and  his  friends  had  grown  too  hungry  to  jest. 

Tchin  Len  went  over  to  Seventeen,  to  bring  lit 
tle  Bow  Kum.  As  he  pushed  open  the  door,  he  saw 
the  little  silken  brocaded  form,  like  a  child  asleep, 
lying  on  the  floor.  Tchin  Len  did  not  understand ; 
he  thought  little  Bow  Kum  was  playing  with  him. 

Poor  little  Bow  Kum. 

The  lean  fingers  had  torn  the  slender  throat. 
Her  baby  hand  was  cut  half  in  two,  where  the  knife 
had  been  snatched  away.  The  long  blade  had  been 
driven  many  times  through  and  through  the  little 
body.  A  final  slash,  hari-kari  fashion  and  all 
across,  had  been  the  awful  climax. 

His  friends  found  Tchin  Len,  seated  on  the  floor, 
with  little  Bow  Kum  in  his  arms.  Grief  was 
neither  in  his  eyes  nor  in  his  mouth,  for  his  mind, 
like  his  heart,  had  been  made  empty. 

Tchin  Len  waits  for  the  vengeance  of  little  Bow 
Kum  to  fall  upon  her  murderers.  Some  say  that 
Tchin  Len  was  a  fool  for  not  paying  Low  Hee  Tong 
the  $3,000.  Some  call  him  dishonest.  All  agree 
that  the  cross-fire  of  killings,  which  has  raged  and 
still  rages  because  of  it,  can  do  little  Bow  Kum 
no  good. 


198 


X. 

THE  COOKING  OF  CRAZY  BUTCH 

This  is  not  so  much  to  chronicle  the  bumping 
off  of  Crazy  Butch,  as  to  open  a  half -gate  of  jus 
tice  in  the  maligned  instance  of  the  Darby  Kid. 
There  is  subdued  excitement  in  and  about  the  Cen 
tral  Office.  There  is  more  excitement,  crossed  with 
a  color  of  bitterness,  in  and  about  the  Chatham 
Club.  The  Central  Office,  working  out  a  tip,  be 
lieves  it  has  cut  the  trail  of  Harry  the  Soldier,  who, 
with  Dopey  Benny,  is  wanted  for  the  killing  of 
Crazy  Butch.  The  thought  which  so  acrimoni 
ously  agitates  the  Chatham  Club  is  "Who  rapped?" 
with  the  finger  of  jealous  suspicion  pointing  sourly 
at  the  Darby  Kid. 

That  you  be  not  misled  in  an  important  particu 
lar,  it  is  well  perhaps  to  explain  that  the  Darby 
Kid  is  a  girl — a  radiant  girl — and  in  her  line  as  a 
booster,  a  girl  of  gold.  She  deeply  loved  Crazy 
Butch,  having  first  loved  Harry  the  Soldier.  If 
she  owned  a  fault,  it  was  that  in  matters  of  the 
heart  she  resembled  the  heroine  of  the  flat  boat 
man's  muse. 

199 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

There  was  a  womern  in  our  town 

In  our  town  did  dwell. 
She  loved  her  husband  dear-i-lee 
An'  another  man  twict  as  well. 

But  that  is  not  saying  she  would  act  as  stool- 
pigeon.  To  charge  that  the  Darby  Kid  turned 
copper,  and  wised  up  the  Central  Office  dicks  con 
cerning  the  whereabouts  of  Harry  the  Soldier,  is 
a  serious  thing.  The  imputation  is  a  grave  one. 
Even  the  meanest  ought  not  to  be  disgraced  as  a 
snitch  in  the  eyes  of  all  Gangland,  lightly  and  upon 
insufficient  evidence.  There  were  others  besides 
the  Darby  Kid  who  knew  how  to  locate  Harry  the 
Soldier.  Might  not  one  of  these  have  given  a  right 
steer  to  the  bulls?  Not  that  the  Darby  Kid  can 
be  pictured  as  altogether  blameless.  She  indubi 
tably  did  a  foolish  thing.  Having  received  that 
letter,  she  should  never  have  talked  about  it.  Such 
communications  cannot  be  kept  too  secret.  Some 
wretched  talebearer  must  have  been  lounging  about 
the  Chatham  Club.  Why  not?  The  Chatham 
Club  can  no  more  guarantee  the  character  of  its 
patrons  than  can  the  Waldorf-Astoria. 

The  evening  was  a  recent  one.  It  was  also  dull. 
There  wasn't  an  overflow  of  customers,  hardly 
enough  in  waiting  on  them,  to  take  the  stiffness 
out  of  Nigger  Mike's  knees. 

It  was  nine  of  the  clock,  and  those  two  insepar 
ables,  the  Irish  Wop  and  old  Jimmy,  sat  in  their 

200 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

usual  chairs.  The  Wop  spoke  complainingly  of  the 
poolroom  trade,  which  was  even  duller  than  trade  at 
the  Chatham  Club. 

"Wat  wit'  killin'  New  York  racin',"  said  the 
Wop  dismally,  "an'  w'at  wit'  raidin'  a  guy's  joint 
every  toime  some  av  them  pa-a-pers  makes  a  crack, 
it's  got  th'  poolrooms  on  th'  bum.  For  meself  I'm 
thinkin'  av  closin'.  Every  day  I'm  open  puts  me 
fifty  dollars  on  th'  nut.  An'  Jimmy,  I've  about 
med  up  me  moind  to  put  th'  shutters  up." 

"Mebby  you're  in  wrong  with  th'  organization." 

"Tammany?  Th'  more  you  shtand  in  wit'  Tam 
many,  th'  ha-a-arder  you  get  slugged." 

Old  Jimmy  signalled  to  Nigger  Mike   for  beer. 

"Over  to  th'  Little  Hungary  last  night,"  remarked 
old  Jimmy  casually,  "them  swell  politicians  has  a 
dinner.  I  was  there." 

The  last  came  off  a  little  proudly. 

"They  tell  me,"  said  the  Wop  with  a  depreca 
tory  shrug,  "that  Cha-a-arley  Murphy  was  there, 
too,  an'  that  Se-r-rgeant  Cram  had  to  go  along 
to  heel  an'  handle  him.  I  can  remimber  whin  chuck 
steak  an'  garlic  is  about  Cha-a-arley's  speed.  Now, 
whin  he's  bushtin'  'em  open  as  Chief  av  Tammany 
Hall,  it's  an  indless  chain  av  champagne  an'  tur'pin 
an'  canvashback,  with  patty-de-foy-grass  as  a 
chaser." 

Old  Jimmy  shook  a  severe  yet  lofty  head.  "If 
some  guy  tells  you,  Wop,  that  Charley  needs  any- 

201 


THE   APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

body  in  his  corner  at  a  dinner  that  guy's  stringin' 
you.  Charley  can  see  his  way  through  from  nap 
kins  to  toothpicks,  as  well  as  old  Chauncey  Depew. 
There's  a  lot  of  duffers  goin'  'round  knockin' 
Charlie.  They're  sore  just  because  he's  gettin' 
along,  see?  They'll  tell  you  how  if  you  butt  him 
up  ag'inst  a  dinner  table,  he'll  about  give  you  an 
imitation  of  a  blind  dog  in  a  meat-shop — how  he'll 
try  to  eat  peas  with  a  knife  an'  let  'em  roll  down 
his  sleeve  an'  all  that.  So  far  as  them  hoboes 
knockin'  Charley  goes,  it's  to  his  credit.  You  don't 
want  to  forget,  Wop,  they  never  knock  a  dead  one." 

"In  th'  ould  gas  house  days,"  enquired  the  Wop, 
"wasn't  Cha-a-arley  a  conducthor  on  wan  av  th' 
crosstown  ca-a-ars?" 

"He  was!  an'  a  good  one  too.  That's  where  he 
got  his  start.  He  quit  'em  when  they  introduced 
bell  punches;  an'  I  don't  blame  him!  Them  big 
companies  is  all  alike.  Which  of  'em'll  stand  for  it 
to  give  a  workin'  man  a  chance  ?" 

"Did  thim  la-a-ads  lasht  night  make  spaches?" 

"Speeches?  Nothin'  but.  Trusts  is  to  be  th' 
issue  this  next  pres'dential  campaign." 

"Now  about  thim  trushts?  I've  been  wantin' 
to  ashk  yez  th'  long  time.  I've  been  hearin'  av 
trushts  for  tin  years,  an'  Mary  save  me!  if  I'd 
know  wan  if  it  was  to  come  an'  live  next  dure." 

"Well,  Wop,"  returned  old  Jimmy  engigmat- 
ically,  "a  trust  is  anything  you  don't  like — only  so 

202 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

it's  a  corp' ration.  So  long  as  it  stands  in  with  you 
an'  you  like  it,  it's  all  right,  see  ?  But  once  it  takes 
to  handin'  you  th'  lemon,  it's  a  trust." 

"Speakin'  av  th'  pris'dency,  it  looks  loike  this  fat 
felly  Taft's  out  to  get  it  in  th'  neck." 

"Surest  ever!  Th'  trusts  is  sore  on  him;  an'  th' 
people  is  sore  on  him.  He's  a  frost  at  both  ends  of 
th'  alley." 

"Wat  crabbed  him?" 

"Too  small  in  th'  hat-band,  too  big  in  th'  belt. 
Them  republicans  better  chuck  Taft  in  th'  discard 
an'  take  up  Teddy.  There's  a  live  one!  There's 
th'  sturdy  plow-boy  of  politics  who'd  land  'em 
winner !" 

The  Nailer  came  strolling  in  and  pulled  up  a 
chair. 

"Roosevelt,  Jimmy,"  said  he,  "couldn't  make  th' 
run.  Don't  he  start  th'  argument  himself,  th'  time 
he's  elected,  sayin'  it's  his  second  term  an'  he'll 
never  go  out  for  th'  White  House  goods  again?" 

"Shure  he  did,"  coincided  the  Wop.  "An* 
r-r-right  there  he  give  himsilf  th'  gate.  You're 
right,  Nailer;  he's  barred." 

"Teddy  oughtn't  to  have  got  off  that  bluff  about 
not  runnin'  ag'in,"  observed  old  Jimmy  thought 
fully.  "He  sees  it  himself  now.  Th'  next  day 
after  he  makes  his  crack,  a  friend  of  mine,  who's 
down  to  th'  White  House,  asks  him  about  it;  'Is  it 
for  the  bleachers,'  says  my  friend,  'or  does  it  go?' 

203 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"  'Oh,  it  goes !'  says  Teddy. 

"  'Then,'  says  my  friend,  'you'll  pardon  me,  but 
I  don't  think  it  was  up  to  you  to  say  it.  It  may 
wind  up  by  puttin'  everybody  an'  everything  in 
Dutch.  No  sport  can  know  what  he'll  want  to  do, 
or  what  he  ought  to  do,  four  years  ahead.  Bein' 
pres'dent  now,  with  four  years  to  draw  to,  you 
can  no  more  tell  whether  or  no  you'll  want  to  re 
peat  than  you  can  tell  what  you'll  want  for  dinner 
while  you're  eatin'  lunch.  Once  I  knew  a  guy 
who's  always  ready  to  swear  off  whiskey,  when  he's 
half  full.  Used  to  chase  round  to  th'  priest,  on  his 
own  hunch,  to  sign  th'  pledge,  every  time  he  gets 
a  bun.  Bein'  soaked,  he  feels  like  he'll  never  want 
another  drink.  After  he'd  gone  without  whiskey  a 
couple  of  days,  however,  he'd  wake  up  to  it  that 
he's  been  too  bigoted.  He'd  feel  that  he's  taken  too 
narrow  a  view  of  th'  liquor  question,  an'  commence 
to  see  things  in  their  true  colors.'  That's  what 
my  friend  told  him.  And  now  that  Teddy's  show- 
in'  signs,  I've  wondered  whether  he  recalls  them 
warnin'  words." 

"W'at'll  th'  demmycrats  do?"  asked  the  Nailer. 
"Run  Willyum  Jennin's?" 

"They  will,"  retorted  the  Wop  scornfully,  "if 
they  want  to  get  th'  hoot.  Three  toimes  has  this 
guy  Bryan  run — an'  always  f'r  th'  end  book.  D'yez 
moind,  Jimmy,  how  afther  th'  Denver  Convention 
lie  cha-a-ases  down  to  th'  depot  to  shake  ha-a-ands 

204 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

wit'  Cha-a-arley  Murphy?  There's  no  class  to 
that!  Would  Washin'ton  have  done  it? — Would 
Jefferson  ?" 

"How  was  he  hoited  be  shakin*  hands  wit' 
Murphy?" 

The  Nailer's  tones  were  almost  defiant.  He  had 
been  brought  up  with  a  profound  impression  of  the 
grandeur  of  Tammany  Hall. 

"How  was  he  hur-r-rted?  D'yez  call  it  th'  cun- 
nin'  play  f'r  him  to  be  at  th'  depot,  hand  stretched 
out,  an'  yellin'  'Mitt  me,  Cha-a-arley,  mitt  me?" 
Man  aloive,  d'yez  think  th'  country  wants  that 
koind  av  a  ska-a-ate  in  th'  White  House  ?" 

The  acrid  emphasis  of  the  Wop  was  so  over 
whelming  that  it  swept  the  Nailer  off  his  feet. 

The  Wop  resumed : 

"Wan  thing,  that  depot  racket  wasn't  th'  way 
to  carry  New  York.  Th'  way  to  bring  home  th' 
darby  in  th'  Empire  Shtate  is  to  go  to  th'  flure  wit' 
Tammany  at  th'  ringin'  av  th'  gong.  How  was  it 
Cleveland  used  to  win?  Was  it  be  makin'  a  pet  av 
Croker,  or  sendin'  th'  organization  flowers?  An' 
yez  don't  have  to  be  told  what  happened  to  Cleve 
land.  An'  Tammany,  moind  yez,  tryin'  to  thump  his 
proshpecks  on  th'  nut  ivery  fut  av  th'  way!  If 
Willyum  Jinnin's  had  been  th'  wise  fowl,  he'd  have 
took  his  hunch  fr'm  th'  career  av  Cleveland,  an' 
rough-housed  Tammany  whiniver  an'  wheriver 
found.  If  he'd  only  knocked  Tammany  long 

205 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

enough  an'  ha-a-ard  enough,  he'd  have  had  an  an 
chor-nurse  on  th'  result." 

"This  sounds  like  treason,  Wop,"  said  old  Jim 
my  in  tones  of  mock  reproach.  "Croker  was  boss 
in  th'  Cleveland  days.  You'll  hardly  say  that 
Qiarlie  ain't  a  better  chief  than  Croker?" 

"Jimmy,  there's  as  much  difference  bechune  ould 
man  Croker  an'  Cha-a-arley  Murphy  as  bechune  a 
buffalo  bull  an'  a  billy-goat.  To  make  Murphy  chief 
was  loike  settin'  a  boy  to  carryin'  hod.  While  yez 
couldn't  say  f'r  shure  whether  he'd  fall  fr'm  th' 
laddher  or  simply  sit  down  wit'  th'  hod,  it's  a  cinch 
he'd  niver  get  th'  bricks  to  th'  scaffold.  Murphy's 
too  busy  countin'  th'  buttons  on  his  Prince  Albert, 
an'  balancin'  th'  gold  eye-glasshes  on  th'  ridge  av 
his  nose,  to  lave  him  anny  toime  f'r  vict'ry." 

"While  youse  guys,"  observed  the  Nailer,  with  a 
great  air  of  knowing  something,  "is  indulgin'  in 
your  spiels  about  Murphy,  don't  it  ever  strike  youse 
that  he's  out  to  make  Gaynor  pres'dent?" 

"Gaynor?"  repeated  old  Jimmy,  in  high  offence. 
"Do  you  think  Charlie's  balmy?  If  it  ever  gets  so 
that  folks  of  th'  Gaynor  size  is  looked  on  as  big 
enough  for  th'  presidency,  I  for  one  shall  retire  to 
th'  booby  house  an'  devote  th'  remainder  of  an  ill- 
spent  life  to  cuttin'  paper  dolls.  An'  yet,  Nailer, 
I  oughtn't  to  wonder  at  youse  either  for  namin' 
him.  There's  a  Demmycrat  Club  mutt  speaks  to  me 
about  that  very  thing  at  th'  Little  Hungary  dinner. 

206 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

'Gaynor  is  a  college  graduate,'  says  the  Demmycrat 
Clubber.  'Is  he?'  says  I.  'Well  then  he  ought  to 
chase  around  to  that  college  an'  make  'em  give  him 
back  his  money.  They  swindled  him.'  'Look  at  th' 
friends  he  has !'  says  th'  Clubber.  'I've  been  admir- 
in'  'em/  I  says.  'What  with  one  thing  an'  another, 
them  he's  appointed  to  office  has  stole  everything 
but  th'  back  fence.'  'But  didn't  Croker,  in  his  time, 
hook  him  up  with  Tammany  Hall?'  says  th'  Club 
ber  ;  'that  ought  to  show  you !'  'Croker  did,'  says  I  ; 
'it's  an  old  Croker  trick.  Croker  was  forever  get- 
tin'  th'  Gaynors  an'  th'  Shepherds  an'  th'  Astor- 
Chanlers  an'  th'  Cord  Meyers  an'  all  them  high-fly- 
in'  guys  into  Tammany.  He  does  it  for  th'  same 
reason  they  puts  a  geranium  in  a  tenement  house 
window.'  'An'  w'at  may  that  be?'  asks  the  Club 
ber.  'Th'  geranium's  intended,'  says  I,  'to  engage 
th'  eye  of  th'  Health  Inspector,  an'  distract  his  at 
tention  from  th'  drain.' ' 

The  Darby  Kid,  a  bright  dancing  light  in  her 
eyes  and  all  a-flutter,  rushed  in.  The  Nailer  crossed 
over  to  a  table  at  which  sat  Mollie  Squint.  The 
Darby  Kid  joined  them. 

"W'at  do  youse  think?"  cried  the  Darby  Kid. 
"I'm  comin'  out  of  me  flat  when  th'  postman  slips 
me  a  letter  from  Harry  th'  Soldier." 

"Where  is  he?"  asked  Mollie  Squint. 

"That's  th'  funny  part.  He's  in  th'  Eyetalian 
Army,  an'  headed  for  Africa.  That's  a  fine  lay- 

207 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

out,  I  don't  think!  An'  he  says  I'm  th'  only  goil 
he  ever  loves,  an'  asts  me  to  join  him !  Ain't  he  got 
his  nerve?" 

"W'y?  You  ain't  mad  because  he  croaks 
Butch?" 

"No.    But  me  for  Africa! — the  ideer!" 

"About  Dopey  Benny?"  said  the  Nailer. 

"Harry  says  Benny  got  four  spaces  in  Canada. 
It's  a  bank  trick — tryin'  to  blow  a  box  in  Montreal 
or  somethin'." 

"Then  you  won't  join  Harry?"  remarked  Mollie 
Squint. 

"In  Africa?  When  I  do,  I'll  toin  mission 
worker." 

The  next  day  the  Central  Office  knew  all  that 
the  Darby  Kid  knew  as  to  Harry  the  Soldier.  But 
why  say  it  was  she  who  squealed  ?  The  Nailer  and 
Mollie  Squint  were  quite  as  well  informed  as  her 
self,  having  read  Harry's  letter. 

To  begin  at  the  foundation  and  go  to  the  eaves — • 
which  is  the  only  right  way  to  build  either  a  house 
or  a  story.  Crazy  Butch  had  reached  his  twenty- 
eighth  year,  when  he  died  and  was  laid  to  rest  in 
accordance  with  the  ceremonial  of  his  ancient 
church.  He  was  a  child  of  the  East  Side,  and  his 
vices  out-topped  his  virtues  upon  a  principle  of  six 
teen  to  one. 

The  parents  of  Butch  may  be  curtly  dismissed  as 
unimportant.  They  gave  him  neither  care  nor 

208 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

guidance,  but  left  him  to  grow  up,  a  moral  strag 
gler,  in  what  tangled  fashion  he  would.  Never  once 
did  they  show  him  the  moral  way  in  which  he  should 
go.  Not  that  Butch  would  have  taken  it  if  they 
had. 

To  Butch,  as  to  Gangland  in  general,  morality 
was  as  so  much  lost  motion.  And,  just  as  time'  is 
money  among  honest  folk,  so  was  motion  money 
with  Butch  and  his  predatory  kind.  Old  Jimmy 
.correctly  laid  down  the  Gangland  position,  which 
was  Butch's  position.  Said  old  Jimmy: 

"Morality  is  all  to  the  excellent  for  geeks  with 
dough  to  burn  an'  time  to  throw  away.  It's  right 
into  the  mitts  of  W'ite  Chokers,  who  gets  paid  for 
bein'  good  an'  hire  out  to  be  virchuous  for  so  much 
a  year.  But  of  what  use  is  morality  to  a  guy  along 
the  Bowery?  You  could  take  a  cartload  of  it  to 
Simpson's,  an'  you  couldn't  get  a  dollar  on  it." 

Not  much  was  known  of  the  childhood  of  Butch, 
albeit  his  vacuous  lack  of  book  knowledge  assisted" 
the  theory  that  little  or  less  of  it  had  been  passed 
in  school.  Nor  was  that  childhood  a  lengthy  one, 
for  fame  began  early  to  collect  upon  Butch's  schem 
ing  brow.  He  was  about  the  green  and  unripe  age 
of  thirteen  when  he  went  abroad  into  the  highways 
and  byways  of  the  upper  city  and  stole  a  dog  of  the 
breed  termed  setter.  This  animal  he  named  Rabbi, 
and  trained  as  a  thief. 

Rabbi,  for  many  months,  was  Butch's  meal 
209 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

ticket.  The  method  of  their  thievish  procedure 
was  simple  but  effective.  Butch — Rabbi  alertly  at 
his  godless  heels — would  stroll  about  the  streets 
looking  for  prey.  When  some  woman  drifted  by, 
equipped  of  a  handbag  of  promise,  Butch  pointed 
out  the  same  to  the  rascal  notice  of  Rabbi.  After 
which  the  discreet  Butch  withdrew,  the  rest  of  it — 
as  he  said — being  up  to  Rabbi. 

Rabbi  followed  the  woman,  his  abandoned  eye  on 
the  hand-bag.  Watching  his  chance,  Rabbi  rushed 
the  woman  and  dexterously  whisked  the  handbag 
from  out  her  horrified  fingers.  Before  the  woman 
realized  her  loss,  Rabbi  had  raced  around  a  near 
est  corner  and  was  lost  to  all  pursuit.  Fifteen  min 
utes  later  he  would  find  Butch  at  Willett  and  Stan- 
ton  Streets,  and  turn  over  the  touch. 

Rabbi  hated  a  policeman  like  a  Christian.  The 
sight  of  one  would  send  him  into  growling,  snarling, 
hiding.  None  the  less,  like  all  great  characters, 
Rabbi  became  known;  and,  in  the  end,  through 
some  .fraud  which  was  addressed  to  his  softer  side 
and  wherein  a  canine  Delilah  performed,  he  was 
betrayed  into  the  clutches  of  the  law. 

This  mischance  marked  the  close,  as  a  hanger- 
snatcher,  of  the  invaluable  Rabbi's  career.  Not 
that  the  plain-clothes  people  who  caught  him  affixed 
a  period  to  his  doggish  days.  Even  a  plains-clothes 
man  isn't  entirely  hard.  Rabbi's  captors  merely 

210 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

found  him  a  home  in  the  Catskills,  where  he  spent 
his  days  in  honor  and  his  nights  in  sucking  unsus 
pected  eggs. 

When  Rabbi  was  retired  to  private  life,  Butch, 
in  his  bread-hunting,  resolved  to  seek  new  paths. 
Among  the  cruder  crimes  is  house-breaking  and 
to  it  the  amateur  law-breaker  most  naturally  turns. 
Butch  became  a  house-worker  with  special  reference 
to  flats. 

In  the  beginning,  Butch  worked  in  the  day  time, 
or  as  they  say  in  Gangland,  "went  out  on  skush." 
Hating  the  sun,  however,  as  all  true  criminals 
must,  he  shifted  to  night  jobs,  and  took  his  dingy 
place  in  the  ranks  of  viciousness  as  a  schlamwcrker. 
As  such  he  turned  off  houses,  flats  and  stores,  tak 
ing  what  Fate  sent  him.  Occasionally  he  varied  the 
dull  monotony  of  simple  burglary  by  truck-hopping. 

Man  cannot  live  by  burglary  alone,  and  Butch 
was  not  without  his  gregarious  side.  Seeking  com 
radeship,  he  united  himself  with  the  Eastman  gang. 
As  a  gangster  he  soon  distinguished  himself.  He 
fought  like  a  berserk;  and  it  was  a  sort  of  war- 
frenzy,  which  overtook  him  in  battle,  that  gave 
him  his  honorable  prefix. 

Monk  Eastman  thought  well  of  Butch.  Not 
even  Ike  the  Blood  stood  nearer  than  did  Butch  to 
the  heart  of  that  grim  gang  captain.  Eastman's 
weakness  was  pigeons.  When  he  himself  went 

211 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

finally  to  Sing-  Sing,  he  asked  the  court  to  permit 
him  another  week  in  the  Tombs,  so  that  he  might 
find  a  father  for  his  five  hundred  feathered  pets. 

In  the  days  when  Butch  came  to  strengthen  as 
well  as  ornament  his  forces,  Eastman  kept  a  bird 
store  in  Broome  Street,  under  the  New  Irving  Hall. 
Eastman  also  rented  bicycles.  Those  who  thirsted 
to  stand  well  with  him  were  sedulous  to  ride  a 
wheel.  They  rented  these  uneasy  engines  of  East 
man,  with  the  view  of  drawing-  to  themselves  that 
leader's  favor.  Butch,  himself,  was  early  astride 
a  bicycle.  One  time  and  another  he  paid  into  East 
man's  hands  the  proceeds  of  many  a  skush  or 
schlain  job;  and  all  for  the  calf -developing  privilege 
of  pedalling  about  the  streets. 

Butch  conceived  an  idea  wrhich  peculiarly  en 
deared  him  to  Eastman.  In  Forsyth  Street  was  a 
hall,  and  Butch — renting  the  same — organized  an 
association  wrhich,  in  honorable  advertisement  of  his 
chief's  trade  of  pigeons  and  bicycles,  he  called  the 
Squab- Wheelmen.  Eastman  himself  stood  god 
father  to  this  club,  and  at  what  times  he  reposed 
himself  from  his  bike  and  pigeon  labors,  played 
pool  in  its  rooms. 

There  occurred  that  which  might  have  shaken 
one  less  firmly  established  than  Butch.  As  it  was, 
it  but  solidified  him  and  did  him  good.  The  world 
will  remember  the  great  gang  battle,  fought  at 
.Worth  and  Center  Streets,  between  the  Eastmans 

212 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

and  the  Five  Points.  The  merry-making  was  put 
an  end  to  by  those  spoil  sports,  the  police,  who,  as 
much  without  noble  sympathies  as  chivalric  in 
stincts,  drove  the  contending  warriors  from  the  field 
at  the  point  of  their  night  sticks. 

Brief  as  was  the  fray,  numerous  were  the  brave 
deeds  clone.  On  one  side  or  the  other,  the  Drop 
per,  the  Nailer,  Big  Abrams,  Ike  the  Blood,  Slim- 
my,  Johnny  Rice,  Jackeen  Dalton,  Biff  Ellison  and 
the  Grabber  distinguished  themselves.  As  for 
Butch,  he  was  deep  within  the  warlike  thick  of 
things,  and  no  one  than  he  came  more  to  the  pop 
ular  front. 

Sequential  to  that  jousting,  a  thought  came  to 
Butch.  The  Squab-Wheelmen  were  in  nightly  ex 
pectation  of  an  attack  from  the  Five  Pointers.  By 
way  of  testing  their  valor,  and  settle  definitely,  in 
event  of  trouble,  who  would  stick  and  who  would 
duck,  Butch  one  midnight,  came  rushing  up  the 
stairway,  which  led  to  the  club  rooms,  blazing  with 
two  pistols  at  once.  Butch  had  prevailed  upon  five 
or  six  others,  of  humor  as  jocose  as  his  own,  to 
assist,  and  the  explosive  racket  the  party  made  in 
the  narrow  stairway  was  all  that  heart  could  have 
wished.  It  was  comparable  only  to  a  Mott  Street 
Chinese  New  Year's,  as  celebrated  in  front  of  the 
Port  Arthur. 

There  were  sixty  members  in  the  rooms  of  the 
Squab-Wheelmen  when  Butch  led  up  his  feigned 

213 


THE   APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

attack,  and  it  is  discouraging-  to  relate  that  most  if 
not  all  of  them  fled.  Little  Kishky,  sitting  in  a 
window,  was  so  overcome  that  he  fell  out  back 
wards,  and  broke  his  neck.  Some  of  those  who 
fled,  by  way  of  covering  their  confusion,  were  in 
clined  to  make  a  deal  of  the  death  of  Little  Kishky 
and  would  have  had  it  set  to  the  discredit  of  Butch. 
Gangland  opinion,  however,  was  against  them.  If 
Little  Kishky  hadn't  been  a  quitter,  he  would  never 
have  fallen  out.  Butch  was  not  only  exonerated 
but  applauded.  He  had  devised — so  declared  Gang 
land — an  ideal  method  of  separating  the  sheep  who 
would  fly  from  the  goats  who  would  stay  and  stand 
fire. 

Then,  too,  there  was  the  laugh. 

Gangland  was  quick  to  see  the  humorous  side; 
and  since  humanity  is  prone  to  decide  as  it  laughs, 
Gangland  overwhelmingly  declared  in  favor  ot 
Butch. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Butch  found  himself 
in  a  jam.  His  schlam  work  had  never  been  first 
class.  It  was  the  want  of  finish  to  it  which  earned 
him  the  name  of  Butch.  The  second  night  after 
his  stampede  of  the  Squab-Wheelmen,  his  clumsi 
ness  in  a  Brooklyn  flat  woke  up  a  woman,  who  woke 
up  the  neighborhood.  Whereupon,  the  neighbor 
hood  rushed  in  and  sat  upon  the  body  of  Butch, 
until  the  police  came  to  claim  him.  Subsequently, 
a  Kings  County  judge  saw  his  way  clear  to  send 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Butch  up  the  river  for  four  weary  years.  And 
did. 

Butch  was  older  and  soberer  when  he  returned. 
Also,  his  world  had  changed.  Eastman  had  been 
put  away,  and  Ritchie  Fitzpatrick  ruled  in  his 
place.  Butch  cultivated  discretion,  where  before  he 
had  been  hot  and  headlong,  and  no  longer  sought 
that  gang  prominence  which  was  formerly  as  the 
breath  to  his  nostrils. 

Not  that  Butch  altogether  turned  his  back  upon 
his  old-time  associates.  The  local  Froissarts  tell 
how  he,  himself,  captained  a  score  or  so  of  choice 
spirits  among  the  Eastmans,  against  the  Humpty 
Jackson  gang,  beat  them,  took  them  prisoners  and 
plundered  them.  This  brilliant  action  occurred  in 
that  Fourteenth  Street  graveyard  which  was  the 
common  hang-out  of  the  Humpty  Jacksons.  Also, 
Humpty  Jackson  commanded  his  partisans  in  per 
son,  and  was  captured  and  frisked  with  the  rest. 
Butch  gained  much  glory  and  some  money ;  for  the 
Jacksons — however  it  happened — chanced  to  be 
flush. 

Butch,  returning  from  Sing-Sing  exile,  did  not 
return  to  his  schlam  work.  That  trip  up-the-river 
had  shaken  him.  He  became  a  Fagin,  and  taught 
boys  of  tender  years  to  do  his  stealing  for  him. 

Butch's  mob  of  kids  counted  as  many  as  twenty, 
all  trained  in  pocket-picking  to  a  feather-edge.  As 
aiding  their  childish  efforts,  it  was  Butch's  habit 

215 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

to  mount  a  bicycle,  and  proceed  slowly  down  the 
street,  his  fleet  of  kids  going  well  abreast  of  him  on 
the  walks.  Acting1  the  part  of  some  half-taught 
amateur  of  the  wheel,  Butch  would  bump  into  a 
man  or  a  woman,  preferably  a  woman.  There 
would  be  cries  and  a  scuffle.  The  woman  would 
scold,  Butch  would  expound  and  explain.  Mean 
while  the  wren-head  public  packed  itself  ten  deep 
about  the  center  of  excitement. 

It  was  then  that  Butch's  young  adherents  pushed 
their  shrewd  way  in.  Little  hands  went  flying,  to 
reap  a  very  harvest  of  pokes.  Butch  began  build 
ing  up  a  bank  account. 

As  an  excuse  for  living,  and  to  keep  his  mob 
together,  Butch  opened  a  pool  parlor.  This  tem 
ple  of  enjoyment  was  in  a  basement  in  Willett 
Street  near  Stanton.  The  tariff  was  two-and-a- 
half  cents  a  cue,  and  what  Charley  Bateses  and 
Artful  Dodgers  worked  for  Butch  were  wont  to 
refresh  themselves  at  the  game. 

Butch  made  money  with  both  hands.  He  took 
his  share  as  a  Fagin.  Then,  what  fragmentary 
remnants  of  their  stealings  he  allowed  his  young 
followers,  was  faithfully  blown  in  by  them  across 
his  pool  tables. 

Imagination  rules  the  world.  Butch,  having 
imagination,  extended  himself.  Already  a  Fagin, 
Butch  became  a  passer  and  bought  stolen  goods  for 
himself.  Often,  too,  he  acted  as  a  mclina  and 

216 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

bought  for  others.  Thus  Butch  had  three  strings 
to  his  business  bow.  He  was  getting  rich  and  at 
the  same  time  keeping  out  of  the  ringers  of  the 
bulls.  This  caused  him  to  be  much  looked  up  to 
and  envied,  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of 
Gangland. 

Butch  was  thus  prosperous  and  prospering  when 
it  occurred  to  him  to  fall  in  love.  Harry  the  Sol 
dier  was  the  Mark  Antony  of  the  Five  Points,  his 
Cleopatra  the  Darby  Kid.  There  existed  divers 
reasons  for  adoring  the  Darby  Kid.  There  was 
her  lustrous  eyes,  her  coral  mouth,  her  rounded 
cheek,  her  full  figure,  her  gifts  as  a  shop  lifter. 
As  a  graceful  crown  to  these  attractions,  the  Darby 
Kid  could  pick  a  pocket  with  the  best  wire  that  ever 
touched  a  leather.  In  no  wise  had  she  been  named 
the  Darby  Kid  for  nothing.  Not  even  Mollie 
Squint  was  her  superior  at  getting  the  bundle  of 
a  boob.  They  said,  and  with  truth,  that  those 
soft,  deep,  lustrous  eyes  could  look  a  sucker  over, 
while  yet  that  unconscious  sucker  was  ten  feet 
away,  and  locate  the  keck  wherein  he  carried  his 
roll.  Is  it  astonishing  then  that  the  heart  of  Butch 
went  down  on  its  willing  knees  to  the  Darby  Kid  ? 

Another  matter: — Wasn't  the  Darby  Kid  the 
chosen  one  of  Harry  the  Soldier?  Was  not  Harry 
a  Five  Pointer?  Had  not  Butch,  elbow  to  elbow, 
with  his  great  chief,  Eastman,  fought  the  Five 
Pointers  in  the  battle  at  Worth  and  Center?  It 

217 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

was  a  triumph,  indeed,  to  win  the  heart  of  the 
Darby  Kid.  It  was  twice  a  triumph  to  steal  that 
heart  away  from  Harry  the  Soldier. 

The  Darby  Kid  crossed  over  from  Harry  the 
Soldier  to  Butch,  and  brought  her  love  along. 
Thereafter  her  smiles  were  for  Butch,  her  caresses 
for  Butch,  her  touches  for  Butch.  Harry  the  Sol 
dier  was  left  desolate. 

Harry  the  Soldier  was  a  gon  of  merit  and  de 
served  eminence.  That  he  had  been  an  inmate  not 
only  of  the  House  of  Refuge  but  the  Elmira  Re 
formatory,  should  show  you  that  he  was  a  past- 
master  at  his  art.  His  steady  partner  was  Dopey 
Benny.  With  one  to  relieve  the  other  in  the  ex 
acting  duties  of  stinger,  and  a  couple  of  good  stalls 
to  put  up  an  effective  back,  trust  them,  at  fair 
or  circus  or  theatre  break,  to  make  leathers,  props 
and  thimbles  fly. 

It  was  Gangland  decision  that  for  Butch  to  win 
the  Darby  Kid  away  from  Harry  the  Soldier,  even 
as  Paris  aforetime  took  the  lovely  Helen  from  her 
Menelaus,  touched  not  alone  the  honor  of  Harry 
but  the  honor  of  the  Five  Points.  Harry  must 
revenge  himself.  Still  more  must  he  revenge  the 
Five  Points.  It  had  become  a  case  of  Butch's  life 
or  his.  On  no  milder  terms  could  Harry  sustain 
himself  in  Gangland  first  circles.  His  name  else 
would  be  despised  anywhere  and  everywhere  that 


218 


THE   APACHES   OF   NEW    YORK 

the  fair  and  the  brave  were  wont  to  come  together 
and  unbuckle  socially. 

Butch,  tall  and  broad  and  strong,  smooth  of  face, 
arched  of  nose,  was  a  born  hawk  of  battle.  Harry 
the  Soldier,  dark,  short,  of  no  muscular  power, 
was  not  the  physical  equal  of  Butch.  Butch  looked 
forward  with  confidence  to  the  upcome. 

"An'  yet,  Butch,"  sweetly  warned  the  Darby  Kid, 
her  arms  about  his  neck,  "you  mustn't  go  to  sleep 
at  the  switch.  Harry '11  nail  you  if  youse  do.  It'll 
be  a  gun-fight,  an'  he's  a  dream  wit'  a  gatt." 

"Never  mind  about  that  gatt  thing!  Do  youse 
think,  dearie,  I'd  let  that  Guinea  cop  a  sneak  on 
me?" 

It  was  a  cool  evening  in  September.  A  dozen 
of  Butch's  young  gons  were  knocking  the  balls 
about  his  pool  tables.  Butch  himself  was  behind 
the  bar.  Outside  in  Willett  Street  a  whistle 
sounded.  Butch  picked  up  a  pistol  off  the  drip- 
board,  just  in  time  to  peg  a  shot  at  Harry  the  Sol 
dier  as  that  ill-used  lover  came  through  the  front 
door.  Dopey  Benny,  Jonathan  to  the  other's  David, 
was  with  Harry.  Neither  tried  to  shoot.  Through 
a  hail  of  lead  from  Butch's  pistol,  the  two  ran  out 
the  back  door.  No  one  killed ;  no  one  wounded. 
Butch  had  been  shooting  too  high,  as  the  bullet- 
raked  ceiling  made  plain. 

Butch  explained  his  wretched  gun  play  by  saying 


219 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

that  he  was  afraid  of  pinking  some  valued  one 
among  his  boy  scouts. 

"At  that,"  he  added,  "it's  just  as  well.  Them 
wops  '11  never  come  back.  Now  when  they  see  I'm 
organized  they'll  stay  away.  There  ain't  no  sand 
in  them  Sicilians. 

Butch  was  wrong.  Harry,  with  Dopey  Benny, 
was  back  the  next  night.  This  time  there  was  no 
whistle.  Harry  had  sent  forward  a  force  of  skir 
mishers  to  do  up  those  sentinels,  with  whom  Butch 
had  picketed  Willett  Street.  Butch's  earliest  inti 
mation  that  there  was  something  doing  came  when 
a  bullet  from  the  gun  of  Harry  broke  his  back. 
Dopey  Benny  stood  off  the  public,  while  Harry  put 
three  more  bullets  into  Butch.  The  final  three  were 
superfluous,  however,  as  was  shown  at  the  inquest 
next  day. 

The  Darby  Kid  was  abroad  upon  her  professional 
duties  as  a  gon-moll,  when  Harry  hived  Butch.  Her 
absence  was  regretted  by  her  former  lover. 

"Because,"  said  he,  as  he  and  Dopey  Benny  fled 
down  Stanton  Street,  I'd  like  to  have  made  the  play 
a  double  header,  and  downed  the  Kid  along  wit' 
Butch." 

It  was  not  so  written,  however.  Double  headers, 
whatever  the  field  of  human  effort,  are  the  excep 
tion  and  not  the  rule  of  life. 

It  was  whispered  that  Harry  the  Soldier  and 
Dopey  Benny  remained  three  days  in  the  Pell  Street 

220 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

room  of  Big  Mike  Abrams  before  their  get-away. 
They  might  have  been  at  the  bottom  of  the  lower 
bay,  for  all  the  Central  Office  knew.  Butch  was 
buried,  and  the  Darby  Kid  wept  over  his  grave. 
After  which  she  cheered  up,  and  came  back  smiling. 
There  is  no  good  in  grief.  Besides,  it's  egotistical, 
and  trenches  upon  conceit. 

The  Central  Office  declares  that,  equipped  of  the 
right  papers,  it  will  bring  Harry  the  Soldier  back 
from  Africa.  Also,  it  will  go  after  Dopey  Benny 
in  Kanuckland,  when  his  time  is  out.  The  chair 
— says  the  Central  Office — shall  yet  have  both. 

Old  Jimmy  doesn't  think  there's  a  chance,  while 
the  jaundiced  Wop  openly  scoffs.  Neither  believes 
in  the  police.  Meanwhile  dark  suspicions  hover 
cloudily  over  the  Darby  Kid.  Did  she  rap?  She 
says  not,  and  offers  to  pawn  her  soul. 

"Why  should  I?"  asks  the  Darby  Kid.  "Of 
course  I'd  sooner  it  was  Butch  copped  Harry.  But 
it  went  the  other  way;  an'  why  should  I  holier? 
Would  beefin'  bring  Butch  back?" 


XI. 

BIG  MIKE  ABRAMS 

This  was  after  Nigger  Mike  had  gone  into  exile 
in  cold  and  sorrowful  Toronto,  and  while  Tony 
Kelly  did  the  moist  honors  at  Number  Twelve 
Pell.  Nigger  Mike,  you  will  remember,  hurried  to 
his  ruin  on  the  combined  currents  of  enthusiasm 
and  many  drinks,  had  registered  a  score  or  two 
of  times;  for  he  meditated  casting  full  fifty  votes 
at  the  coming  election,  in  his  own  proper  person, 
and  said  so  to  his  friends. 

As  Mike  registered  those  numerous  times,  the 
snap-shot  hirelings  of  certain  annoying  reformers 
were  busy  popping  him  with  their  cameras.  His 
friends  informed  him  of  this,  and  counselled  going 
slow.  But  Mike  was  beyond  counsel,  and  knew  little 
or  less  of  cameras — never  having  had  his  picture 
taken  save  officially,  and  by  the  rules  of  Bertillon. 
In  the  face  of  those  who  would  have  saved  him,  he 
continued  to  stagger  in  and  out  upon  that  multifari 
ous  registration,  inviting  destruction.  The  purists 
took  the  pictures  to  the  District  Attorney,  their  hire 
lings  told  their  tales,  and  Mike  perforce  went  into 
that  sad  Toronto  exile.  He  is  back  now,  however, 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

safe,  sober,  clothed  and  in  his  right  mind ;  but  that  is 
another  story. 

The  day  had  been  a  sweltering  July  day  for  all  of 
Chinatown.  Now  that  night  had  come,  the  narrow 
ness  of  Pell  and  Doyers  and  Mott  Streets  was 
choked  with  Chinamen,  sitting  along  the  curb,  loll 
ing  in  doorways,  or  slowly  drifting  up  and  down, 
making  the  most  of  the  cool  of  the  evening. 

Over  across  from  Number  Twelve  a  sudden  row 
broke  out.  There  were  smashings  and  crashings, 
loopholed,  as  it  were,  with  shrill  Mongolian  shrieks. 
The  guests  about  Tony's  tables  glanced  up  with 
dull,  half-interested  eyes. 

"It's  Big  Mike  Abrams  tearin'  th'  packin'  out  of 
th'  laundry  across  th'  street,"  said  Tony. 

Tony  was  at  the  front  door  when  the  war  broke 
forth,  and  had  come  aft  to  explain.  Otherwise 
those  about  his  tables  might  have  gone  personally 
forth,  seeking  a  solution  of  those  yellings  and 
smashings  and  crashings  for  themselves,  and  the 
flow  of  profitable  beer  been  thereby  interrupted. 
At  Tony's  explanation  his  guests  sat  back  in  their 
chairs,  and  ordered  further  beer.  Which  shows 
that  Tony  had  a  knowledge  of  his  business. 

"About  them  socialists,"  resumed  Sop  Henry, 
taking  up  the  talk  where  it  had  broken  off;  "Big 
Tom  Foley  tells  me  that  they're  gettin'  something 
fierce.  They  cast  more'n  thirty  thousand  votes 
last  Fall." 

223 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"Say,"  broke  in  the  Nailer,  "I  can't  understand 
about  a  socialist.  He  must  be  on  the  level  at  that; 
for  one  evenin',  when  they're  holdin'  a  meetin'  in 
the  Bowery,  a  fleet  of  gons  goes  through  a  dozen 
of  'em,  an',  exceptin'  for  one  who's  an  editor,  and 
has  pulled  off  a  touch  somewheres,  there  ain't  street 
car  fare  in  all  their  kecks.  That  shows  there's 
nothin'  in  it  for  'em.  Th'  editor  has  four  bones  on 
him — hardly  enough  for  a  round  of  drinks  an' 
beef  stews.  Th'  mob  blows  it  in  at  Flynn's  joint, 
down  be  th'  corner." 

"I'm  like  you,  Nailer,"  agreed  Sop  Henry. 
"Them  socialists  have  certainly  got  me  goin'.  I 
can't  get  onto  their  coives  at  all." 

"Lishten,  then."  This  came  from  the  Irish  Wop, 
who  was  nothing  if  not  political.  "Lishten  to  me. 
Yez  can  go  to  shleep  on  it,  I  know  all  about  a 
socialist.  There's  ould  Casey's  son,  Barney — ould 
Casey  that  med  a  killin'  in  ashphalt.  Well,  since 
his  pah-pah  got  rich,  young  Casey's  a  socialist.  On'y 
his  name  ain't  Barney  now,  it's  Berna-a-ard. 
There's  slathers  av  thim  sons  av  rich  min  turnin' 
socialists.  They  ain't  strong  enough  to  git  a  fall 
out  av  either  av  th'  big  pa-a-arties,  so  they  rush 
off  to  th'  socialists,  where  be  payin'  fer  th'  shpot 
light,  they're  allowed  to  break  into  th'  picture. 
That's  th'  way  wit'  young  Barney,  ould  Ashphalt 
Casey's  son.  Wan  evenin'  he  dr-r-ives  up  to  Lyon's 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

wit'  his  pah-pah's  broom,  two  bob-tailed  horses 
that  spint  most  av  their  time  on  their  hind  legs,  an' 
th'  Casey  coat  av  arms  on  the  broom  dure,  th' 
same  bein'  a  shtick  av  dynamite  rampant,  wit'  two 
shovels  reversed  on  a  field  av  p'tatoes.  'How  ar-r-re 
ye?'  he  says.  'I  want  yez  to  jump  in  an'  come 
wit'  me  to  th'  Crystal  Palace.  It's  a  socialist  meet- 
in'/  he  says.  'Oh,  it  is  ?'  says  I ;  'an'  phwat's  a  so 
cialist?  Is  it  a  game  or  a  musical  inshtrumint  ?' 
Wit'  that  he  goes  into  p'ticulars.  'Well,'  thinks  I, 
'there's  th'  ride,  annyhow ;  an'  I  ain't  had  a  carriage 
ride  since  Eat-'em-up-Jack  packed  in — saints  rest 
him!  So  I  goes  out  to  th'  broom;  an'  bechune  th' 
restlessness  av  thim  bob-tailed  horses  an'  me  not 
seein'  a  carriage  fer  so  long,  I  nearly  br-r-roke  me 
two  legs  gettin'  in.  However,  I  wint.  An'  I  sat 
on  th'  stage;  an'  I  lishtened  to  th'  wind-jammin' ; 
an'  not  to  go  no  further,  a  socialist  is  simply  an  an 
archist  who  don't  believe  in  bombs." 

There  arose  laughter  and  loud  congratulatory 
sounds  about  the  door.  Next,  broadly  smiling,  ut 
terly  complacent,  Big  Mike  Abrams  walked  in. 

"Did  youse  lobsters  hear  me  handin'  it  to  th' 
monkeys?"  he  asked,  and  his  manner  was  the  man 
ner  of  him  who  doubts  not  the  endorsement  of  men. 
"That  chink,  Low  Foo,  snakes  two  of  me  shirts. 
I  sends  him  five,  an'  he  on'y  sends  back  three.  So 
I  caves  in  his  block  wit'  a  flatiron.  You  ought  to 

225 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

pipe  his  joint!  I  leaves  it  lookin'  like  a  poolroom 
that  won't  prodooce,  after  the  wardman  gets 
through." 

"An'  Low  Foo?"  queried  Tony,  who  had  shirts 
of  his  own. 

"Oh,  a  couple  of  monks  carries  him  to  his  bunk 
out  back.  It'll  take  somethin'  more'n  a  shell  of  hop 
to  chase  away  his  troubles!"  Mike  refreshed  him 
self  with  a  glass  of  beer,  which  he  called  suds. 
"Say,"  he  continued  with  much  fervor,  "I  wisht  I 
could  get  a  job  punchin'  monks  at  a  dollar  a  monk !" 

Mike  Abrams,  alias  Big  Mike,  was  a  pillar  of 
Chinatown,  and  added  distinctly  to  the  life  of  that 
quarter.  He  was  nearly  six  feet  tall,  with  should 
ers  as  square  as  the  foretopsail  yard  of  a  brig.  His 
nervous  arms  were  long  and  slingy,  his  bony  hands 
the  size  of  hams.  Neither  the  Dropper  nor  yet  Big 
Myerson  could  swap  blows  with  him,  and  his  hug 
— if  it  came  to  rough-and-tumble — was  comparable 
only  to  the  hug  of  Mersher  the  Strong  Arm,  who 
had  out-hugged  a  bear  for  the  drinks. 

While  he  lived,  Little  Maxie  greatly  appreciated 
Big  Mike.  Little  Maxie  is  dead  now.  He  ranked 
in  the  eyes  of  Mulberry  Street  as  the  best  tool  that 
ever  nailed  a  leather.  To  be  allowed  to  join  out 
with  his  mob  was  conclusive  of  one's  cleverness  as 
a  gon.  For  Maxie  would  have  no  bunglers,  no 
learners  about  him. 

And,  yet,  as  he  himself  said,  Big  Mike's  value 

226 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

lay  not  in  any  deftness  of  fingers,  but  in  his  stout, 
unflinching  heart,  and  a  knock-down  strength  of 
fist  like  unto  the  blow  of  a  maul. 

"As  a  stall  he's  worse'n  a  dead  one,"  Maxie  had 
said.  "No  one  ever  put  up  a  worse  back.  But  let  a 
sucker  raise  a  roar,  or  some  galoot  of  a  country 
sheriff  start  something — that's  where  Mike  comes 
on.  You  know  last  summer,  when  I'm  folio  win' 
Ringling's  show?  Stagger,  Beansey  an'  Mike's  wit' 
me  as  bunchers.  Over  at  Patterson  we  had  a 
rumble.  I  got  a  rube's  ticker,  a  red  one.  He  made 
me;  an'  wit'  that  youse  could  hear  th'  yell  he  lets 
out  of  him  in  Newark.  A  dozen  of  them  special 
bulls  which  Ringling  has  on  his  staff  makes  a  grab 
at  us.  Youse  should  have  lamped  Mike!  Th'  way 
he  laid  out  them  circus  dicks  was  like  a  tune  of 
music.  It's  done  in  a  flash,  an'  every  last  guy  of  us 
makes  his  get-away.  Hock  your  socks,  it's  Mike  for 
me  every  time !  I'd  sooner  he  filled  in  wit'  a  mob  of 
mine  than  th'  best  dip  that  ever  pinched  a  poke." 

Big  Mike  had  been  a  fixed  star  in  the  Gangland 
firmament  for  years.  He  knew  he  could  slug,  he 
knew  he  could  stay;  and  he  made  the  most  of  these 
virtues.  When  not  working  with  Little  Maxie,  he 
took  short  trips  into  the  country  with  an  occa 
sional  select  band  of  yeggs,  out  to  crack  a  P.  O.  or 
a  jug.  At  such  times,  Mike  was  the  out-side  man 
— ever  a  post  of  responsibility.  The  out-side  man 
watches  while  the  others  blow  the  box.  In  case 

227 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

things  take  to  looking  queer  or  leary,  he  is  to  pass 
the  whistle  of  warning  to  his  pals.  Should  an  offi 
cer  show  unexpectedly  up,  he  must  stand  him  off 
at  the  muzzle  of  his  gatt,  and  if  crowded,  shoot  and 
shoot  to  kill.  He  is  to  stand  fast  by  his  partners, 
busy  with  wedges,  fuse  and  soup  inside,  and 
under  no  circumstances  to  desert  them.  Mike  was 
that  one  of  ten  thousand,  who  had  the  nerve  and 
could  be  relied  upon  to  do  and  be  these  several  iron 
things.  Wherefore,  he  lived  not  without  honor 
in  the  land,  and  never  was  there  a  fleet  of  yeggs  or 
a  mob  of  gons,  but  received  him  into  its  midst  with 
joy  and  open  hearts. 

Mike  made  a  deal  of  money.  Not  that  it  stuck  to 
him ;  for  he  was  born  with  his  hands  open  and  spent 
it  as  fast  as  he  made  it.  Also,  he  drank  deeply  and 
freely,  and  moreover  hit  the  pipe.  Nor  could  he, 
in  the  latter  particular,  be  called  a  pleasure  smoker 
nor  a  Saturday  nighter.  Mike  had  the  habit. 

At  one  time  Mike  ran  an  opium  den  at  Coney 
Island,  and  again  on  the  second  floor  of  Number 
Twelve  Pell.  But  the  police — who  had  no  sure  way 
of  gauging  the  profits  of  opium — demanded  so 
much  for  the  privilege  that  Mike  was  forced  to 
close. 

"Them  bulls  wanted  all  I  made  an'  more,"  com 
plained  Mike,  recounting  his  wrongs  to  Beansey. 
"I  had  a  5o-pipe  joint  that  time  in  Pell,  an'  from 
the  size  of  the  rake-off  the  captain's  wardman  asks, 

228 


TfiTE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

you'd  have  thought  that  every  pipe's  a  roulette 
wheel." 

"Couldn't  you  do  nothin'  wit'  'em?"  asked  Bean- 
sey,  sympathetically. 

"Not  a  t'ing.  I  shows  'em  that  number-one  hop 
is  $87.50  a  can,  an'  yen-chee  or  seconds  not  less'n 
$32.  Nothin'  doin' !  It's  either  come  across  wit' 
five  hundred  bones  th'  foist  of  every  month,  or 
quit." 

Mike  sighed  over  his  fair  prospects,  blighted  by 
the  ignorant  avarice  of  the  police. 

"Wat  was  youse  chargin'  a  smoke?"  inquired 
Beansey. 

"Two  bits  a  shell.  Of  course,  that's  for  yen- 
chee.  I  couldn't  give  'em  number-one  for  two  bits. 
After  all,  w'at  I  cares  most  for  is  me  cats — two 
long-haired  Persians." 

"Cats?"  repeated  Beansey,  suspiciously.  "W'at  be 
youse  handin'  me?" 

Beansey,  by  the  way,  knew  nothing  of  opium. 

"W'at  am  I  handin'  youse?"  said  Mike.  "I'm 
handin'  you  th'  goods.  Cats  get  th'  habit  same  as 
people.  My  cats  would  plant  be  some  party  who's 
cookin'  a  pill,  an'  sniff  th'  hop  an'  get  as  happy  as 
anybody.  Take  'em  off  the  pipe,  an'  it's  th'  same  as 
if  they're  Christians.  Dogs,  too.  Let'em  once  get 
th'  habit,  an'  then  take  'em  away  from  a  pipe  joint, 
an'  they  has  pains  in  their  stummicks,  an'  twists  an' 
yowls  till  you  think  they're  goin'  mad.  When  th* 

229 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

cops  shut  down  on  me,  I  has  to  give  me  cats  to  th' 
monk  who's  runnin'  th'  opium  dump  on  th'  top 
floor.  Suret'ing!  They'd  have  croaked  if  I  hadn't. 
They're  on'y  half  happy,  though;  for  while  they 
gets  their  hop  they  misses  me.  Them  toms  an'  me 
has  had  many  a  good  smoke." 

Folks  often  wondered  at  the  intimacy  between 
Mike  and  Little  Maxie — not  that  it  has  anything  to 
do  with  this  story.  Little  Maxie — his  name  on  the 
Central  Office  books  was  Maxie  Fyne,  alias  Maxie 
English,  alias  Little  Maxie,  alias  Sharapatheck — 
was  the  opposite  of  Big  Mike.  He  was  small;  he 
was  weak;  he  didn't  drink;  he  dicm't  hit  the  pipe. 
Also,  at  all  times,  and  in  cold  blood,  he  was  a  pro 
fessional  thief.  His  wife,  whom  he  called  "My 
Kytie" — for  Little  Maxie  was  from  Houndsditch, 
and  now  and  then  his  accent  showed  it — was  as 
good  a  thief  as  he,  but  on  a  different  lay.  Her 
specialty  was  robbing  women.  She  worked  alone, 
as  all  good  gon-molls  do,  and  because  of  her  sure 
excellencies  was  known  as  the  Golden  Hand. 

Little  Maxie  and  his  Golden  Hand,  otherwise  his 
Kytie — her  name  was  Kate — had  a  clean  little  house 
near  Washington  Square  on  the  south.  They  owned 
a  piano  and  a  telephone — the  latter  was  purely  de 
fensive — and  their  two  children  went  to  school, 
and  sat  book  to  book  with  the  children  of  honest 
men  and  women. 

The  little  quiet  home,  with  its  piano  and  defensive 
230 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

telephone,  is  gone  now.  Little  Maxie  died  and  his 
Golden  Hand  married  again;  for  there's  no  false 
sentiment  in  Gangland.  If  a  husband's  dead  he's 
dead,  and  there's  nothing  made  by  mourning.  Like 
wise,  what's  most  wanted  in  any  husband  is  that 
he  should  be  a  live  one. 

Little  Maxie  died  in  a  rather  curious  way.  Some 
say  he  was  drowned  by  his  pals,  Big  Mike  among 
them.  The  story  runs  that  there  was  a  quarrel  over 
splitting  up  a  touch,  and  the  mob  charged  Lit 
tle  Maxie  with  holding  out.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the 
certainty  is  that  Little  Maxie  and  his  mob,  being 
in  Peekskill,  got  exceeding  drunk — all  but  Little 
Maxie — and  went  out  in  a  boat.  Being  out,  Little 
Maxie  went  overboard  abruptly,  and  never  came  up. 
Neither  did  anybody  go  after  him.  The  mob  re 
turned  to  town  to  weep — crocodile  tears,  some 
said — into  their  beer,  as  they  told  and  re-told  their 
loss,  and  in  due  time  Little  Maxie's  body  drifted 
ashore  and  was  buried.  That  was  the  end.  Had  it 
been  some  trust-thief  of  a  millionaire,  there  would 
have  been  an  investigation.  But  Little  Maxie  was 
only  a  pick-pocket. 

Big  Mike,  like  all  strong  characters,  had  his 
weakness.  His  weakness  was  punching  Chinamen; 
fairly  speaking,  it  grew  to  be  his  fad.  It  wasn't 
necessary  that  a  Chinaman  do  anything;  it  was 
enough  that  he  came  within  reach.  Mike  would 
knock  him  cold.  In  a  single  saunter  through  Pell 

231 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Street,  he  had  been  known  to  leave  as  many  as  four 
senseless  Chinamen  behind  him,  fruits  of  his  fist. 

"For,"  said  Mike,  in  cheerful  exposition  of  the 
motive  which  underlay  that  performance,  "I  do  so 
like  to  beat  .them  monks  about!  I'd  sooner  slam 
one  of  'em  ag'inst  th'  wall  than  smoke  th'  pipe." 

One  time  and  another  Mike  punched  two-thirds 
of  all  the  pig-tailed  heads  in  Chinatown.  Common 
ly  he  confined  himself  to  punching,  though  once  or 
twice  he  went  a  step  beyond.  Lee  Dok  he  nearly 
brained  with  a  stool.  But  Lee  Dok  had  been  insult 
ingly  slow  in  getting  out  of  Mike's  way. 

Mike  was  proud  of  his  name  and  place  as  the 
Terror  of  Chinatown.  Whether  he  walked  in  Mott 
or  Pell  or  Doyers  Street,  every  Chinaman  who 
saw  him  coming  went  inside  and  locked  his  door. 

Those  who  didn't  see  him  and  so  go  inside  and 
lock  their  doors — and  they  were  few — he  promptly 
soaked.  And  if  to  see  a  Chinaman  run  was  as  in 
cense  to  Mike's  nose,  to  soak  one  became  nothing 
less  than  a  sweet  morsel  under  his  tongue.  The 
wonder  was  that  Mike  didn't  get  shot  or  knifed, 
which  miracle  went  not  undiscussed  at  such  centers 
as  Tony's,  Barney  Flynn's,  Jimmy  Kelly's  and  the 
Chatham  Club.  But  so  it  was;  the  pig-tailed  popu 
lation  of  Chinatown  parted  before  Mike's  rush  like 
so  much  water. 

One  only  had  been  known  to  resist — Sassy  Sam. 
who  with  a  dwarf's  body  possessed  a  giant's  soul. 

232 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

Sassy  Sam  was  a  hatchet-man  of  dread  eminence, 
belonging  to  the  Hip  Sing  Tong.  Equipped  of  a 
Chinese  sword,  of  singular  yet  murderous  appear 
ance,  he  chased  Mike  the  length  of  Pell  Street. 
Mike  out-ran  Sassy  Sam,  which  was  just  as  well. 
It  took  three  shells  of  hop  to  calm  Mike's  per* 
turbed  spirit ;  for  he  confessed  to  a  congenital  hor-> 
ror  of  steel. 

"That's  straight,"  said  Mike,  as  with  shaking 
fingers  he  filled  his  peanut-oil  lamp,  and  made  read} 
to  cook  himself  a  pill,  "I  never  could  stand  for  a 
chive.  An'  say" — he  shuddered — "that  monk  har 
one  longer'n  your  arm." 

Sassy  Sam  and  his  snickersnee,  however,  did  not 
•cure  Mike  of  his  weakness  for  punching  the  Mon 
golian  head.  Nothing  short  of  death  could  have 
done  that. 

Some  six  months  prior  to  his  caving  in  the  skull 
of  Low  Foo,  because  of  those  shirts  improperly 
missing,  Mike  did  that  which  led  to  consequences. 
Prompted  by  an  overplus  of  sweet,  heady  Chinese 
rum,  or  perhaps  it  was  the  heroic  example  of  Sassy 
Sam,  Ling  Tchen,  being  surprised  by  Mike  in  Pell 
Street,  did  not — pig-tail  flying — clatter  inside  and 
lock  his  door.  More  and  worse,  he  faced  Mike, 
faced  him,  coughed  contumeliously  and  spat  upon 
the  cobbles.  To  merely  soak  Ling  Tchen  would  have 
been  no  adequate  retort — Ling  Tchen  who  thus 
studied  to  shame  him.  Wherefore  Mike  killed  him 

233 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

with  a  clasp  knife,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to 
cut  off  the  dead  Tchen's  head.  The  law  might  have 
taken  notice  of  this  killing,  but  some  forethought 
ful  friend  had  had  wit  enough  to  tuck  a  gun  be 
neath  the  dead  Tchen's  blouse,  and  thus  it  became 
at  once  and  obviously  a  case  of  self-defence. 

There  was  a  loose  screw  in  the  killing  of  Ling 
Tchen.  The  loose  screw  dwelt  not  in  the  manner 
of  that  killing,  which  had  been  not  only  thorough 
but  artistic.  Indeed,  cutting  off  Ling  Tchen's  head 
as  a  finale  was  nothing  short  of  a  stroke  of  genius. 
The  loose  screw  was  that  Ling  Tchen  belonged  to 
the  Hip  Sing  Tong ;  and  the  Hip  Sing  Tongs  lived 
in  Pell  Street,  where  Mike  himself  abode.  To  be 
sure,  since  Ling  Tchen  did  the  provoking,  Mike  had 
had  no  choice.  Still,  it  might  have  come  off  bet 
ter  had  Ling  Tchen  been  an  On  Leon  Tong.  An 
On  Leon  Tong  belongs  in  Mott  Street  and  doesn't 
dare  poke  his  wheat-hued  nose  into  Pell  Street, 
where  the  Four  Brothers  and  the  Hip  Sing  Tongs 
are  at  home. 

Mike's  room  was  in  the  rear,  on  the  second  floor 
of  Number  Twelve.  It  pleased  and  soothed  him, 
he  said,  as  he  smoked  a  pill,  to  hear  the  muffled 
revelry  below  in  Tony's.  He  had  just  come  from 
his  room  upon  that  shirt  occasion  which  resulted  so 
disastrously  for  Low  Fee. 

Mike  was  among  friends  in  Tony's.  Having 
told  in  full  how  he  did  up  Low  Foo,  and  smashed 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

that  shirt  thief's  laundry,  Mike  drank  two  glasses 
of  beer,  and  said  that  he  thought  now  he'd  go  up 
stairs  and  have  a  smoke. 

"There  must  be  somethin'  in  lickin'  a  chink,"  ex 
pounded  Mike,  "that  makes  a  guy  hanker  for  th' 
hop." 

"It's  early  yet ;  better  stick  'round,"  urged  Tony, 
politely.  "There  is  some  high-rollers  from  New 
port  up  here  on  a  yacht,  an'  crazy  to  see  Chinatown 
in  th'  summer  when  th'  blankets  is  off.  Th'  dicks 
w'at's  got  'em  in  tow,  gives  me  th'  tip  that  they'll 
come  lungin'  in  here  about  ten.  They're  over  in 
Mott  Street  now,  takin'  a  peek  at  the  joss  house 
an'  drinkin'  tea  in  the  Port  Arthur." 

"I  don't  want  to  meet  'em,"  declared  Mike. 
"Them  stiffs  makes  me  sick.  If  youse'd  promise  to 
lock  th'  doors,  Tony,  an'  put  'em  all  in  th'  air  for 
what  they've  got  on  'em,  I  might  stay." 

"That'd  be  a  wise  play,  I  don't  think,"  remarked 
the  Dropper,  who  had  just  come  in.  "Tony'd  last 
about  as  long  as  a  dollar  pointin'  stuss.  Puttin'  a 
chink  on  th'  bum  is  easy,  an'  a  guy  can  get  away 
wit'  it;  but  lay  a  finger  on  a  Fift'  Avenoo  Willie- 
boy,  or  look  cockeyed  at  a  spark-fawney  on  th' 
finger  of  one  of  them  dames,  an'  a  judge'll  fall  over 
himself  to  hand  youse  twenty  years." 

"Right  youse  be,  Dropper!"  said  the  sophisti 
cated  Tony. 

Mike  climbed  the  creaking  stairway  to  his  room. 
235 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Below,  in  Tony's,  the  beer,  the  gossip,  the  music, 
the  singing  and  the  dancing  went  on.  Pretty  Agnes 
sang  a  new  song,  and  was  applauded.  That  is,  she 
was  applauded  by  all  save  Mollie  Squint,  who  up 
lifted  her  nose  and  said  that  "it  wasn't  so  much." 

Mollie  Squint  was  invited  to  sing,  but  refused. 

About  ten  o'clock  came  the  Newport  contingent, 
fresh  from  quaffing  tea  and  burning  joss  sticks. 
They  were  led  by  a  she-captain  of  the  Four  Hun 
dred,  who  shall  go  here  as  Mrs.  Vee.  Mrs.  Vee, 
young,  pretty,  be-jeweled,  was  in  top  spirits.  For 
she  had  just  been  divorced  from  her  husband,  and 
they  put  brandy  into  the  Port  Arthur  tea  if  you 
tell  them  to. 

Tony  did  the  honors  for  Number  Twelve.  He 
and  Mrs.  Vee,  surrounded  by  a  fluttering  flock  of 
purple  doves,  all  from  aristocratic  cotes,  became  as 
thick  as  thieves.  The  Dropper,  who  was  not  want 
ing  in  good  looks  and  could  spiel  like  a  dancing 
master,  went  twice  around  the  room  with  Mrs.  Vee 
• — just  for  a  lark,  you  know — to  a  tune  scraped 
from  Tony's  fiddles  and  thumped  from  that  publi 
can's  piano.  After  which,  Mrs.  Vee  and  her  flutter 
of  followers,  Willieboys  and  all,  went  their  purple 
way. 

Tony,  with  never  flagging  courtesy,  escorted  them 
to  the  door.  What  he  beheld  filled  his  somewhat 
sluggish  soul  with  wonder.  Pell  Street  was 
thronged  with  Chinamen.  They  were  sitting  or 

236 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

standing,  all  silent,  faces  void  of  meaning.  The 
situation,  too,  was  strange  in  this.  A  Chinaman 
could  have  told  you  that  they  were  all  of  the  Hip 
Sing  Tong,  and  not  a  Four  Brothers  among  them. 
He  wouldn't  of  course,  for  a  Chinaman  tells  a 
white  devil  nothing.  Pell,  by  the  way,  was  as  much 
the  home  street  of  the  Four  Brothers  as  of  the  Hip 
Sing  Tong. 

Tony  expressed  his  astonishment  at  the  pig- 
tailed  press  which  thronged  the  thoroughfare. 

"This  is  how  it  is,"  vouchsafed  the  explanatory 
Tony  to  Mrs.  Vee  and  her  purple  fluttering  doves. 
"Big  Mike's  just  after  standin'  Low  Foo's  wash- 
shop  on  its  nut,  an'  these  monks  are  sizin'  up  th' 
wreck.  When  anything  happens  to  a  monk  his 
tong  makes  good,  see?" 

Tony  might  not  have  said  this  had  he  recalled 
that  Low  Foo  was  a  Four  Brothers,  and  understood 
that  no  one  not  a  Hip  Sing  Tong  was  in  the  crowd. 
Tony,  however,  recalled  nothing,  understood  noth 
ing;  for  he  couldn't  tell  one  Chinaman  from  an 
other. 

"How  interesting!"  cooed  Mrs.  Vee,  in  response 
to  Tony's  elucidation;  and  with  that  her  flock  of 
purple  doves,  in  fluttering  agreement,  cooed,  "How 
interesting!" 

"Did  youse  lamp  th'  ice  on  them  dames?"  asked 
Sop  Henry,  when  the  slumming  Mrs.  Vee  and  her 
suite  were  out  of  ear-shot. 

237 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

Sop  had  an  eye  for  diamonds. 

"That  bunch  ain't  got  a  thing  but  money!'*  ob 
served  the  Wop,  his  eyes  glittering  enviously.  "I 
wisht  I  had  half  their  cush." 

"Money  ain't  th'  whole  box  of  tricks." 

This  deep  declaration  emanated  from  old  Jimmy. 

Old  Jimmy's  home  was  a  rear  room  on  Second 
Street  near  the  Bowery,  which  overlooked  a  grave 
yard  hidden  in  the  heart  of  the  block.  There,  when 
not  restoring  himself  at  Tony's  or  Sirocco's  or 
Lyon's,  old  Jimmy  smoked  a  vile  tobacco  known  as 
Sailors'  Choice,  in  a  vile  clay  pipe  as  black  as  sin, 
and  meditated.  Having  nothing  to  do  but  think,  he 
evolved  in  time  into  a  philosopher,  and  it  became 
his  habit  to  unload  chunks  of  wisdom  on  whomso 
ever  seemed  to  stand  in  need.  Also,  since  he  was 
warlike  and  carried  a  knife,  and  because  anyone  in 
hard  luck  could  touch  him  for  a  dollar,  he  was  lis 
tened  to  politely  in  what  society  he  favored  with  his 
countenance. 

"Money  ain't  th'  whole  box  of  tricks,"  old  Jimmy 
repeated,  severely,  wagging  a  grizzled  head  at  the 
Wop,  "an'  only  you're  Irish  an'  ignorant  you 
wouldn't  have  to  be  told  so." 

"Jimmy,  you're  nutty,"  returned  the  Wop. 

"Never  mind  me  bein'  nutty,"  retorted  old  Jim 
my,  dogmatically.  "I  know  all  about  th'  rich." 
Then,  in  forgetfulness  of  his  pension  and  the  lib 
eral  source  of  it,  he  continued :  "A  rich  man  is 

238 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

so  much  like  a  fat  hog  that  he's  seldom  any  good 
until  he's  dead." 

Old  Jimmy  called  for  beer ;  wisdom  is  always  dry. 

"Say?"  observed  the  Dropper,  airily,  "do  youse 
guys  know  that  I'm  thinkin'  I'll  just  about  cop  off 
some  dame  with  millions  of  dough,  an'  marry  her." 

"Would  she  have  youse  ?"  inquired  Mollie  Squint, 
with  the  flicker  of  a  sneer. 

"It's  easy  money,"  returned  the  Dropper;  "all 
I  has  to  do  is  put  out  me  sign,  see?  Them  rich 
frails  would  fall  for  me  in  a  hully  second." 

"You  crooks  can't  think  of  a  thing  but  money," 
snorted  old  Jimmy.  "Marry  a  rich  dame !  A  guy 
might  as  well  get  a  job  as  valet  or  butler  or  foot 
man  somewhere  an'  let  it  go  at  that.  Do  you 
mutts  know  what  love  is?  Th'  one  married  chance 
of  happiness  is  love.  An'  to  love,  folks  must  be 
poor.  Then  they  have  to  depend  upon  each  other; 
and  it's  only  when  people  depend  upon  each  other 
they  love  each  other." 

"Jimmy,"  quoth  the  Dropper,  with  mock  sad 
ness.  "I  can  see  your  finish.  You'll  land  in  Bloom- 
ingdale,  playin'  wit'  a  string  of  spools." 

"Did  you  ever,"  demanded  old  Jimmy,  disre 
garding  the  irreverent  Dropper,  "see  some  strapping 
young  party,  up  against  the  skyline  on  an  iron  build 
ing,  workin'  away  wit'  one  of  them  rivetin'  guns? 
Well,  somewhere  between  th'  two  rivers  there's  a 
girl  he's  married  to,  who's  doin'  a  two-step  'round  a 

239 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

cook  stove,  fryin'  steak  an'  onions  for  him,  an' 
keepin'  an  eye  out  that  their  kids  don't  do  a  high 
dive  off  th'  fire-escape.  Them  two  people  are  th' 
happiest  in  th'  world.  Such  boneheads  as  you  can't 
appreciate  it,  but  they  are.  Give  'em  a  million 
dollars  an'  you'll  spoil  it.  They'd  get  a  divorce; 
you'd  put  that  household  on  th'  toboggan.  If  this 
Mister  Vee,  now,  had  been  poor  an'  drove  a  truck 
instead  of  bein'  rich  an'  drivin'  a  6-horse  coach,  an* 
if  Mrs.  Vee  had  been  poor  an'  done  a  catch-as-catch- 
can  with  th'  family  washtub  instead  of  havin' 
money  to  burn  an'  hirein'  a  laundress,  she'd  never 
have  bucked  th'  divorce  game,  but  lived  happy  ever 
after." 

"But,  Jimmy,"  interposed  Tony,  "I've  seen  poor 
folks  scrap." 

"Sure,"  assented  Jimmy ;  "all  married  folks  scrap 
• — a  little.  But  them's  only  love  spats,  when  they're 
poor.  Th'  wife  begins  'em.  She  thinks  she'll  just 
about  try  hubby  out,  an'  see  can  he  go  some.  Th' 
only  risk  is  him  bein'  weak  enough  to  let  her  win. 
She  don't  want  to  win;  victory  would  only  em 
barrass  her.  What  she's  after  is  a  protector;  an'  if 
hubby  lets  her  put  him  on  th'  floor  for  th'  count,  she 
don't  know  where  she's  at.  She's  dead  sure  she's 
no  good;  an'  if  he's  a  quitter  she's  left  all  in  th' 
air.  Havin'  floored  him,  she  thinks  to  herself,  'This 
thing  protect  me?  Why,  I  can  lick  him  myself!' 

240 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

After  that,  hubby  might  better  keep  close  tabs  on 
little  Bright-eyes,  or  some  mornin'  he'll  call  the 
family  roll  an'  she  won't  answer.  Take  a  boy  an' 
a  girl,  both  young,  both  square,  both  poor — so 
they'll  need  each  ether — an',  so  he's  got  her  shaded 
a  little  should  it  come  to  th'  gloves,  two  bugs  in  a 
rug  won't  have  nothin'  on  them." 

Old  Jimmy  up-ended  his  glass,  as  one  who  had 
settled  grave  matters,  while  the  Dropper  and  the 
Wop  shook  contemplative  heads. 

"An'  yet,"  said  the  Wop,  after  a  pause,  "goin' 
back  to  them  rich  babies  who  was  here,  I  still  say 
I  wisht  I  had  their  bundle." 

"It's  four  for  one,"  returned  old  Jimmy,  his  phi 
losophy  again  forging  to  the  fore — it's  four  for 
one,  Wop,  you'd  have  a  dead  bad  time.  What  street 
shows  th'  most  empty  houses?  Ain't  it  Fift'  Ave- 
noo  ?  Why  be  they  empty  ?  Because  the  ginks  who 
lived  in  'em  didn't  have  a  good  time  in  'em.  If 
they  had  they'd  have  stuck.  A  guy  don't  go  places, 
he  leaves  places.  He  don't  go  to  Europe,  he  leaves 
New  York." 

Old  Jimmy  turned  to  Tony. 

"Fill  up  th'  crockery.  I'm  talkin'  'way  over  th' 
heads  of  these  bums." 

"Ain't  he  a  wonder?"  whispered  Pretty  Agnes  to 
the  Nailer. 

"I  should  say  as  much,"  responded  the  admir- 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

ing  Nailer.  "He  ought  to  be  sellin'  gold  bricks. 
He's  talked  th'  Dropper  an'  th'  Wop  into  a  hard 
knot." 

The  Dropper  was  not  to  be  quelled,  and  insisted 
that  Jimmy  was  conversing  through  his  sou'wester. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  broke  in  Jew  Yetta ;  "I  strings 
wit'  Jimmy.  Take  a  tumble  to  yourself,  Dropper. 
If  you  was  to  marry  one  of  them  money  dames, 
you'd  have  to  go  into  high  society.  An'  then  what  ? 
W'y,  you'd  look  like  a  pig  on  a  front  porch." 

"Don't  youse  bet  on  it,"  declared  the  Dropper 
loftily.  "There's  nothin'  in  that  high  society  stuff. 
A  smart  guy  like  me  could  learn  his  way  t'rough 
in  a  week." 

"Could  he?"  said  the  Nailer,  and  his  tones  were 
tones  of  derision. 

"That's  w'at  I  says!"  replied  the  Dropper.  Then, 
heatedly :  "W'y,  do  you  geeks  think  I've  never  been 
north  of  Fourteenth  Street?  Youse  make  me  tired, 
Nailer.  While  you  was  up-th'-river,  for  toinin' 
off  that  loft  in  Chambers  Street,  don't  I  go  to  a 
shindy  at  th'  Demmycrat  Club  in  honor  of  Sen'tor 
Depew?  There  was  loidies  there — th'  real  thing, 
too.  An'  wasn't  I  another  time  at  th'  Charlie  Mur 
phy  dinner?  Talk  of  high  society! — if  that  ain't 
high  society,  what  is?" 

Having  squelched  the  Nailer,  the  Dropper  pro 
ceeded  more  moderately. 

"I  remember  th'  scare  that's  t'run  into  me  at  the 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

Depew  racket.  I've  been  put  up  ag'inst  some  hot 
propositions,  but  if  ever  I'm  faded  it's  then  when, 
for  th'  foist  time,  I  lamps  a  full-blown  dame  in 
evenin'  dress.  On  th'  dead,  I  felt  like  yellin' 
'Police!'" 

"Phwat  was  it  scared  yez,  Dropper?"  asked  the 
Wop. 

"It  ain't  that  I'm  so  scared  as  rattled.  There's 
too  much  free-board  to  them  evenin'  dresses." 

"An'  the  Charlie  Murphy  banquet,"  said  Pretty 
Agnes,  wistfully.  "Didn't  yez  get  cold  feet?" 

"Naw,  I  don't  git  cold  feet.  I  admits  I  falls 
down,  I  don't  try  to  sidestep  that;  but  it  wasn't 
my  fault.  Do  it  over  again,  an'  I'd  go  t'rough  wit' 
bells  on." 

"How  did  youse  fall  down?" 

"It's  be  accident;  I  takes  th'  wrong  steer,  that's 
all.  I  makes  it  a  point,  knowin'  I'm  none  too  wise, 
to  plant  meself  when  we  pulls  up  to  the  feed  oppo 
site  to  a  gilded  old  bunk,  who  looked  like  ready 
money.  'Do  as  he  does,  Dropper'  I  says  to  meself, 
'an'  you're  winner  in  a  walk!'  So,  when  he  plays 
a  fork,  I  plays  a  fork ;  if  he  boards  a  chive,  I  boards 
a  chive;  from  soup  to  birds  I'm  steerin'  be  his  wake. 
Then  all  of  a  sudden  I  cops  a  shock.  We've  just 
made  some  roast  squabs  look  like  five  cents  worth 
of  lard  in  a  paper  bag,  an'  slopped  out  a  bunch  of 
fizz  to  wash  'em  down,  when  what  does  that  old 
Rube  do  but  up  an'  sink  his  hooks  in  a  bowl  of 

243 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

water.  Honest,  I  like  to  've  fell  in  a  fit!  There 
I'd  been  feelin'  as  cunning  as  a  pet  fox,  an'  me  on 
a  dead  one  from  th'  jump !" 

"Did  any  of  them  smart  Alecks  give  youse  th" 
laugh  ?"  asked  the  Nailer. 

"Give  me  th'  laugh,"  repeated  the  Dropper,  dis 
gustedly.  "I'd  have  smashed  whoever  die]  in  th* 
eye." 

While  beer  and  conversation  were  flowing  in 
Number  Twelve,  a  sophisticated  eye  would  have 
noted  divers  outside  matters  which  might  or  might 
not  have  had  a  meaning.  On  the  heels  of  Big 
Mike's  laundry  deeds  of  desolation  and  destruction 
at  Low  Foo's,  not  a  Chinaman  was  visible  in  Pell 
Street.  It  was  the  same  when  Mike  came  out  of 
Tony's  and  climbed  the  stairs  to  his  room.  Mike 
safely  retired  from  the  field,  a  handful  of  Four 
Brothers — all  of  them  Lows  and  of  the  immediate 
clan  of  Low  Foo — showed  up,  and  took  a  slant- 
eyed  squint  at  what  ruin  had  been  wrought.  They 
spoke  not  above  a  murmur,  but  as  nearly  as  a  white 
devil  might  gather  a  meaning,  they  were  of  the 
view  that  no  monsoon  could  have  more  thoroughly 
scrap-heaped  the  belongings  of  Low  Foo. 

Other  Chinamen  began  to  gather,  scores  upon 
scores.  These  were  Hip  Sing  Tongs,  and  they 
paid  not  the  slightest  heed  to  Low  Foo's  laundry, 
or  what  was  left  of  it.  What  Four  Brothers  were 
abroad  did  not  mingle  with  the  Hip  Sing  Tongs, 

244 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

although  the  two  tribes  lived  in  friendship.  The 
Four  Brothers  quietly  withdrew,  each  to  his  own 
den,  and  left  the  Hip  Sing  Tongs  in  possession  of 
the  street. 

Being  in  possession,  the  Hip  Sing  Tongs  did 
nothing  beyond  roost  on  the  curb,  or  squat  in  door 
ways,  or  stand  idly  about.  Now  and  then  one 
smoked  a  cigarette. 

About  ii. 20  o'clock,  a  Chinaman  entered  Pell 
Street  from  the  Bowery.  Every  one  of  the  Hip 
Sing  Tongs  looked  at  him ;  none  of  them  spoke 
to  him.  Only,  a  place  was  made  for  him  in  the 
darkness  of  the  darkest  doorway.  Had  some  brisk 
Central  Office  intelligence  been  there  and  consulted 
its  watch,  it  might  have  occurred  to  such  intelli 
gence  that  had  the  newcomer  arrived  from  Philadel 
phia  over  the  B.  &  O.  by  latest  train,  he — assuming 
him  to  have  taken  the  ferry  with  proper  dispatch — 
would  have  come  poking  into  Pell  Street  at  pre 
cisely  that  hour. 

Trinity  struck  midnight. 

The  bells  sounded  dim  and  far  away.  It  was 
as  though  it  were  the  ghost  of  some  dead  midnight 
being  struck.  At  the  sound,  and  as  if  he  heard  in 
it  a  signal,  the  mysterious  Chinaman  came  out  of 
the  double  darkness  of  the  doorway  in  which  he  had 
been  waiting,  and  crossed  to  the  stairway  that  led 
up  to  the  room  of  Mike.  Not  a  whisper  came  from 
the  waiting  Hip  Sing  Tongs,  who  watched  him 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

with  that  blend  of  apathy  and  eagerness  observable 
only  in  the  Oriental.  No  one  went  with  the  mys 
terious  Chinaman.  Nor  did  the  stairs  creak — as 
with  Big  Mike — beneath  his  velvet  shoes. 

Five  minutes  passed. 

The  mysterious  one  emerged  from  Mike's  stair 
way  as  silently  as  he  had  entered  it.  He  tossed  a 
claw-like  hand  palm  outward,  toward  the  waiting, 
watching  Hip  Sing  Tongs,  and  then  went  slippering 
towards  the  Bowery.  Had  that  brisk  Central  Office 
intelligence  been  there  to  see,  it  might  have  re 
flected,  recalling  a  time  table,  that  by  taking  the 
Cortlandt  Street  ferry,  the  mysterious  one  would  be 
in  time  for  the  12.30  train  to  Philadelphia  over  the 
Pennsylvania. 

Before  the  mysterious  one  had  reached  the  Bow 
ery,  those  scores  of  waiting,  watching  Hip  Sing 
Tongs  had  vanished,  and  Pell  Street  was  as  empty 
as  the  promise  of  a  politician. 

"Now,"  whispered  Ching  Lee  to  Sam  Kum,  who 
kept  the  chop  suey  shop,  as  they  turned  to  go — 
"now  he  meet  Ling  Tchen,  mebby  so !" 

One  o'clock. 

Tony  began  to  think  about  locking  his  front  door. 
This,  out  of  respect  for  the  law.  Not  that  beer  and 
revelry  were  to  cease  in  Number  Twelve,  but  be 
cause  such  was  Tony's  understanding  with  the  pre 
cinct  skipper.  Some  reformer  might  come  snooping 

246 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

else,  and  lodge  complaint  against  that  skipper  with 
the  Commissioner  of  Police. 

Just  as  Tony,  on  bidding-  "Good-bye!"  to  Mrs. 
Vee  and  her  purple  fluttering  flock,  had  been  im 
pressed  by  the  crowded  condition  of  Pell  Street, 
so  now,  when  he  made  ready  to  lock  up,  was  he 
impressed  by  that  causeway's  profound  emptiness. 

"Say,"  he  cried  to  his  guests  in  the  rear,  "you 
stews  come  here !  This  is  funny ;  there  ain't  a  chink 
in  sight!" 

"D'youse  think  th'  bulls  are  gettin'  ready  for  a 
raid  ?"  asked  Sop  Henry.  Sop,  with  the  Nailer  and 
the  Wop,  had  joined  Tony  in  the  door.  "Perhaps 
there's  somethin'  doin'  over  at  th'  Elizabeth  Street 
station,  an'  the  wardman's  passed  th'  monks  th' 
tip." 

"Nothin'  in  that,"  responded  Tony,  confidently. 
"Wouldn't  I  be  put  wise,  too?" 

Marvelling  much,  Tony  fastened  his  door,  and 
joined  old  Jimmy,  Pretty  Agnes  and  the  others  in 
the  rear  room.  When  he  got  there,  he  found  old 
Jimmy  sniffing  with  suspicious  nose,  and  swearing 
he  smelled  gas. 

"One  of  your  pipes  is  leakin',  Tony,"  said  Jimmy, 
"leakin'  for  fair,  too,  or  I'm  a  Dago !" 

Tony,  in  refutation,  called  attention  to  a  patent 
truth.  He  used  electric  light,  not  gas. 

"But  they  use  gas  upstairs,"  he  added.  Then, 
247 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

hal  f -anxiously ;  "It  can't  be  some  hop-head  has 
blown  out  the  gas?" 

The  thought  was  enough  to  start  the  Dropper, 
ever  full  of  enterprise. 

"Let's  have  a  look,"  said  he.  "Nailer  you  an'  th' 
Wop  come  wit'  me." 

Tony  again  opened  the  front  door,  and  the  Drop 
per,  followed  by  the  Wop  and  the  Nailer,  filed  into 
the  stairway  that  led  to  the  floor  above.  They 
made  noise  enough,  blundering  and  stumbling  in 
the  sudden  hurry  of  spirit  which  had  gripped  them. 
As  they  reached  the  landing  near  Mike's  door,  the 
odor  of  gas  was  even  more  pronounced  than  in 
Tony's  rear  room. 

The  hall  was  blind  black  with  the  thick  darkness 
that  filled  it." 

"How  about  this?"  queried  the  Dropper.  "I 
thought  a  gas  jet  was  always  boinin'  in  th'  hall." 

The  Dropper,  growing  fearful,  hung  back.  With 
that,  the  Wop  pushed  forward  and  took  the  lead. 
Only  for  a  moment.  Giving  a  cry,  he  sprang  back 
with  such  sudden  force  that  he  sent  the  Dropper 
headlong  down  the  stairs. 

"Th'  Virgin  save  us!"  exclaimed  the  Wop,  "but 
I  touched  somethin'  soft!" 

"What's  th'  row?"  demanded  Tony,  coming  to 
the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

At  the  Dropper's  request,  Tony  brought  a  can- 

248 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YQRK 

die,  used  by  him  in  excursions  to  those  crypts  where 
in  he  kept  his  whiskey. 

In  a  moment  all  was  plain.  That  something  soft 
which  had  so  told  upon  the  Wop  was  a  rubber  tube. 
There  was  a  gas  jet  in  the  hall.  One  end  of  the 
rubber  tube  had  been  fastened  over  the  gas  jet, 
and  the  other  stuffed  into  the  keyhole  of  Mike's 
door.  Trap  arranged,  the  gas  had  been  set  flowing 
full  blast. 

"Well,  what  do  youse  think  of  that?"  exclaimed 
Tony,  who  understood  at  a  glance. 

With  one  s\vift  move,  Tony  turned  off  the  gas 
and  tore  away  the  rubber  tube.  There  was  no  talk 
of  keys.  He  placed  his  powerful  shoulder  against 
the  door,  and  sent  it  crashing.  The  out-rush  of 
gas  drove  them,  choking  and  gasping,  into  the  open 
air. 

"Take  it  from  me,"  said  the  Dropper,  as  soon  as 
he  could  get  his  breath,  "they've  croaked  Mike." 

"But  the  window,"  urged  the  Nailer;  "mebbe 
Mike  has  the  window  open!" 

"Not  a  chance !"  retorted  the  Dropper.  "No  one 
has  his  window  up  while  he  hits  th'  pipe.  They 
don't  jibe,  fresh  air  an'  dope." 

The  Dropper  was  right.  Big  Alike,  stark  and 
still  and  yellow,  lay  dead  in  his  bed — the  last  place 
his  friends  would  have  anticipated — poisoned  by 
gas. 

249 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"Better  notify  th'  cops,"  advised  Jimmy,  the 
practical. 

"Who  did  it?"  sobbed  Pretty  Agnes.  "Mike 
never  handed  it  to  himself." 

"Who  did  it?"  repeated  the  Dropper,  bitterly. 
"Th'  chinks  did  it.  It's  for  Low  Foo's  laundry." 

"You're  down  wrong,  Dropper,  said  old  Jimmy. 
"'It's  that  Ling  Tchen  trick.  I  knew  them  Hip 
Sings  would  get  Mike." 


250 


XII. 

THE  GOING  OF  BIFF  ELLISON 

The  jury  returned  a  verdict  of  guilty.  There 
upon  the  judge,  fixing-  Ellison  with  hard  and 
thoughtful  eye,  gave  him  "from  eight  to  twenty 
years."  When  a  man  gets  "from  eight  to  twenty 
years"  he  is  worth  writing  about.  He  would  be 
worth  writing  about,  even  though  it  had  been  for 
such  crimes  of  the  commonplace  as  poke-getting 
at  a  ferry  or  sticking  up  a  drunken  sailor.  And 
Ellison  was  found  guilty  of  manslaughter. 

Razor  Riley  would  have  been  sentenced  along 
with  Ellison,  only  he  had  conveniently  died.  When 
the  Gophers  gather  themselves  together,  they  give 
various  versions  of  Razor  Riley 's  taking  off.  Some 
say  he  perished  of  pneumonia.  Others  lay  it  to  a 
bullet  in  his  careless  mouth.  In  any  case,  he  was 
dead,  and  therefore  couldn't,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
accompany  Ellison  to  Sing  Sing. 

Razor  was  a  little  one-hundred-and-ten-pound 
man,  with  weak  muscles  and  a  heart  of  fire.  He 
had,  razorwise,  cut  and  slashed  his  way  into  much 
favorable  mention,  when  that  pneumonia  or  bullet 
— whichever  it  was — stopped  short  his  career. 

251 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

While  the  width  of  the  city  apart,  he  and  Ellison 
were  ever  friends.  They  drank  together,  fought  to 
gether,  and  held  their  foes  as  they  held  their  money, 
in  common. 

When  the  jury  said  "Guilty,"  it  rilled  Ellison 
with  resentful  amazement.  His  angry  wonder  grew 
as  the  judge  coldly  mentioned  that  "from  eight  to- 
twenty  years."  He  couldn't  understand!  The  poli 
ticians  had  promised  to  save  him.  It  was  only 
upon  such  assurance  that  he  had  concluded  to  re 
turn.  Safe  in  Baltimore,  he  could  have  safely  con 
tinued  in  Baltimore.  Lured  by  false  lights,  misled 
by  spurious  promises,  he  had  come  back  to  get 
"from  eight  to  twenty  years!"  Cray  and  Savage 
rounded  him  up.  All  his  life  a  cop-fighter,  he  would 
have  given  those  Central  Office  stars  a  battle,  had 
he  realized  what  was  in  store  for  him  and  how  like 
a  rope  of  sand  were  the  promises  of  politicians! 

My  own  introduction  to  Ellison  and  Razor  Riley 
was  in  the  Jefferson  Market  court.  That  was  sev 
eral  years  ago.  The  day  was  the  eighteenth  of 
March,  and  Magistrate  Corrigan  had  invited  me  to 
a  seat  on  the  bench.  Ellison  and  Razor  were  ar 
raigned  for  disorderly  conduct.  They  had  pushed 
in  the  door  of  a  Sixth  Avenue  bird  and  animal 
store,  kept  by  an  agitated  Italian,  and  in  the  lan 
guage  of  the  officer  who  made  the  collar,  "didn't  do 
a  thing  to  it." 

"They  are  guilty,  your  honor,"  said  their  lawyer, 
252 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

manner  deprecatory  and  full  of  conciliation,  with 
a  view  to  softening  the  magisterial  heart — "they 
are  guilty.  And  yet  there  is  this  in  their  defense. 
They  had  been  celebrating  Saint  Patrick's  Day, 
over-celebrating  it,  perhaps,  your  honor,  and  they 
didn't  know  what  they  were  about.  That's  the 
mere  truth,  your  honor.  Befuddled  by  too  much 
and  too  fervently  celebrating  the  glorious  day,  they 
really  didn't  know  what  they  were  about." 

The  lawyer  waved  a  virtuous  hand,  as  one  who 
submitted  affairs  to  the  mercy  of  an  enlightened 
court. 

Magistrate  Corrigan  was  about  to  impose  sen 
tence,  when  the  agitated  Italian  broke  forth. 

"Don't  I  get-a  my  chance,  judge?"  he  called  out. 

"Certainly,"  returned  Magistrate  Corrigan, 
"what  is  it  you  want  to  say  ?" 

"Judge,  that-a  guy" — pointing  the  finger  of  re 
buttal  at  the  lawyer — "he  say  theese  mans  don't 
know  what-a  they  do.  One  lie !  They  know  what-a 
they  do  all  right.  I  show  you,  judge.  They 
smash-a  th'  canaries,  they  knock-a  th'  blocks  off-a 
th'  monks,  they  tear-a  th'  tails  out  of  th'  macaws, 
but" — here  his  voice  rose  to  a  screech — "they 
nevair  touch-a  th'  bear." 

Magistrate  Corrigan  glanced  at  the  policeman. 

The  latter  explained  that,  while  Ellison  and 
Razor  had  spread  wreck  and  havoc  among  the 
monkeys  and  macaws,  they  had  avoiciec1  even  a  re- 

253 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

motest  entanglement  with  a  huge  cinnamon  bear, 
chained  in  the  center  of  the  room.  They  had  pru 
dently  plowed  'round  the  bear. 

"Twenty-five  and  costs!"  said  Magistrate  Corri- 
gan,  a  smile  touching  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 
Then,  raising  a  repressive  palm  towards  the  law 
yer,  who  betrayed  symptoms  of  further  oratory: 
"Not  a  word.  Your  people  get  off  very  lightly. 
Upon  the  point  you  urge  that  these  men  didn't  know 
what  they  were  about,  the  testimony  of  our  Italian 
friend  is  highly  convincing." 

When  a  gentleman  goes  to  Sing  Sing  for  longer 
than  five  years,  it  is  Gangland  good  manners  to 
speak  of  him  in  the  past  tense.  Thus,  then,  shall  I 
speak  of  Ellison.  His  name,  properly  laid  down, 
was  James  Ellison.  As,  iron  on  wrists,  a  deputy  at 
his  elbow,  he  stepped  aboard  the  train,  he  gave  his 
age  as  thirty-nine. 

His  monaker  of  Biff  came  to  him  in  the  most 
natural  way  in  the  world.  Gangland  is  ever  ready 
to  bestow  a  title.  Therefore,  when  a  recalcitrant 
customer  of  Fat  Flynn's,  having  quaffed  that  pub 
lican's  beer  and  then  refused  to  pay  for  it,  was 
floored  as  flat  as  a  flounder  by  a  round  blow  from 
Ellison's  fist,  Gangland,  commemorating  the  event, 
renamed  him  Biff. 

Ellison  was  in  his  angular,  awkward  twenties 
when  he  made  his  initial  appearance  along  the  Bow 
ery.  He  came  from  Maryland,  no  one  knew  why 

254 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

and  a  youthful  greenness  would  have  got  him 
laughed  at,  had  it  not  been  for  a  look  in  his  eye 
which  suggested  that  while  he  might  be  green  he 
might  be  game. 

Having  little  education  and  no  trade  Ellison  met 
existence  by  hiring  out  as  bar-keeper  to  Fat  Flynn, 
who  kept  a  grog  shop  of  singular  vilencss  at  34 
Bond.  Its  beer  glasses  were  vulgarly  large,  its 
frequenters  of  the  rough-neck  school.  But  it  was 
either  work  in  Flynn's  or  carry  a  hod,  and  Ellison, 
who  was  not  fanatically  fond  of  hard  labor,  and 
preferred  to  seek  his  bread  along  lines  of  least  re 
sistance,  instantly  and  instinctively  resolved  on  the 
side  of  Flynn's. 

Gangland  is  much  more  given  to  boxing  gloves 
than  books,  and  the  conversation  at  Flynn's,  as  it 
drifted  across  the  bar  to  Ellison — busy  drawing 
beer — was  more  calculated  to  help  his  hands  than 
help  his  head.  Now  and  then,  to  be  sure,  there 
would  come  one  who,  like  Slimmy,  had  acquired 
a  stir  education,  that  is,  a  knowledge  of  books  such 
as  may  be  picked  up  in  prison;  but  for  the  most 
those  whom  Ellison  met,  in  the  frothy  course  of 
business,  were  not  the  ones  to  feed  his  higher 
nature  or  elevate  his  soul.  It  was  a  society  where 
the  strong  man  was  the  best  man,  and  only  fist-right 
prevailed. 

Ellison  was  young,  husky,  with  length  of  reach 
and  plenty  of  hitting  power,  and,  as  the  interests  of 

255 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Flynn  demanded,  he  bowed  to  his  environment  and 
beat  up  many  a  man.  There  were  those  abroad  in 
Bond  Street  whom  he  could  not  have  conquered. 
But,  commonly  sober  and  possessed  besides  of  in 
born  gifts  as  a  matchmaker,  he  had  no  trouble  in 
avoiding  these.  The  folks  whom  he  hooked  up 
with  were  of  the  genus  cinch,  species  pushover, 
and  proceeding  carefully  he  built  up  in  time  a 
standing  for  valor  throughout  all  the  broad  regions 
lying  between  Fourteenth  Street  and  City  Hall 
Park. 

Let  it  be  said  that  Ellison  had  courage.  It  was 
his  prudence  which  taught  him  to  hold  aloof  from 
the  tough  ones.  Now  and  then,  when  a  tough  one 
did  insist  on  war,  Ellison  never  failed  to  bear  him 
self  with  spirit.  Only  he  preferred  to  win  easily, 
with  little  exertion  and  no  injury  to  his  nose  and 
eyes.  For  Ellison,  proud  of  his  appearance,  was 
by  Gangland's  crude  standards  the  glass  of  fashion 
and  the  mould  of  form,  and  flourished  the  idol  of 
the  ladies.  Also,  a  swollen  nose  or  a  discolored 
eye  is  of  no  avail  in  winning  hearts. 

Every  dispenser  of  beer  is  by  way  of  being  a 
power  in  politics.  Some  soar  higher,  some  with 
weaker  wing — that  is  a  question  of  genius.  One 
sells  beer  and  makes  himself  chief  of  Tammany 
Hall.  Another  rises  on  the  tides  of  beer  to  a  dis 
trict  leadership.  Still  others — and  it  is  here  that 

256 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Ellison  comes  in — find  their  lower  beery  level  as 
Tammany's  shoulder-hitting  aides. 

In  the  last  role,  Ellison  was  of  value  to  Tam 
many  Hall.  Wherefore,  whenever  he  fell  into  the 
fingers  of  the  police — generally  for  assault — the 
machine  cast  over  him  the  pinion  of  its  prompt 
protection.  As  the  strong-arm  pet  of  the  organiza 
tion,  he  punched  and  slugged,  knocked  down  and 
dragged  out,  and  did  all  these  in  safety.  Some  soft- 
whispering  politician  was  sure  to  show  a  magistrate 
— all  ears — that  the  equities  were  on  the  side  of 
Ellison,  and  what  black  eyes  or  broken  noses  had 
been  distributed  went  where  they  truly  belonged  and 
would  do  the  most  Tammany  good. 

In  his  double  role  of  beer  dispenser  and  under- 
thug  of  politics,  Ellison  stood  high  in  Gangland 
opinion.  From  Flynn's  in  Bond  Street  he  went 
to  Pickerelle's  in  Chrystie  Street.  Then  he  became 
the  presiding  influence  at  a  dive  of  more  than  usual 
disrepute  kept  by  one  Landt,  which  had  flung  open 
its  dingy  doors  in  Forsyth  Street  near  Houston. 

Ellison"  took  an  impressive  upward  step  at  this 
time.  That  is,  he  nearly  killed  a  policeman.  Nicely 
timing  matters  so  that  the  officer  was  looking  the 
other  way,  he  broke  a  bottle  over  the  blue-coat's 
head.  The  blue-coat  fell  senseless  to  the  floor.  Once 
down  and  helpless,  Ellison  hoofed  him  after  the 
rules  of  Gangland,  which  teach  that  only  fools  are 

257 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

fair,  until  the  hoofed  one  was  a  pick-up  for  an 
ambulance. 

The  officer  spent  two  weeks  in  a  hospital  cot, 
Ellison  two  hours  in  a  station  house  cell.  The  poli 
ticians  closed  the  officer's  mouth,  and  opened  Elli 
son's  cell.  The  officer  got  well  after  a  while,  and 
he  and  Ellison  grew  to  be  good  friends.  The  poli 
ticians  said  that  there  was  nothing  in  it  for  either 
the  officer  or  Ellison  to  remain  at  loggerheads.  No 
man  may  write  himself  "politician"  who  does  not 
combine  the  strength  to  prosecute  a  war,  with  the 
wisdom  -to  conclude  a  peace.  Hence,  at  the  com 
mand  of  the  politicians,  Ellison  and  the  smitten 
officer  struck  hands,  and  pooled  their  differences. 

Ellison,  smooth-faced,  high-featured,  well- 
dressed,  a  Gangland  cavalier,  never  married.  Or  if 
he  did  he  failed  to  mention  it.  He  was  not  a  moll- 
buzzer;  no  one  could  accuse  him  of  taking  money 
from  a  woman.  He  lived  by  the  ballot  and  the 
bung-starter.  In  addition  once  a  year  he  gave  a 
racket,  under  the  auspices  of  what  he  called  the 
"Biff  Ellison  Association,"  and  as  his  fame  in 
creased  his  profits  from  ?.  single  racket  were  known 
to  reach  $2,000. 

At  one  time  Ellison  challenged  fortune  as  part 
proprietor  of  Paresis  Hall,  which  sink  of  sin,  as 
though  for  contrast,  had  been  established  within 
the  very  shadow  of  Cooper  Union.  Terminating  his 

258 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

connection  with  Paresis  Hall,  he  lived  a  life  of  lei 
sure  between  Chick  Tricker's  Park  Row  "store" 
and  Nigger  Mike's  at  Number  Twelve  Pell. 

Occasionally  he  so  far  unbuckled  as  to  escort 
some  lady  to  or  from  Sharkey's  in  Fourteenth 
Street.  Not  as  a  lobbygow ;  not  for  any  ill-odored 
fee  of  fifty  cents.  But  as  a  gentleman  might,  and 
out  of  sheer  politeness.  The  law,  as  enforced  from 
Mulberry  Street,  was  prone  to  take  a  narrow  view 
of  ladies  who  roamed  alone  the  midnight  streets. 
The  gallant  Ellison  was  pleasantly  willing  to  save 
night-bound  dames  of  his  acquaintance  from  this 
annoyance.  That  was  all. 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  celebrated  Paul  Kelly? 
Once  upon  a  time,  a  good  woman  reading  a  news 
paper  saw  reference  to  Paul  Kelly  in  some  interest 
ing  connection.  She  began  to  burn  with  curiosity; 
she  wanted  to  meet  Paul  Kelly,  and  said  so  to  her 
husband.  Since  her  husband  had  been  brought  up 
to  obey  her  in  all  things,  he  made  no  objection. 

Guided  by  a  pathfinder  from  the  Central  Office, 
the  gentleman  went  forth  to  find  Paul  Kelly,  his 
wife  on  his  arm.  They  entered  Lyon's  restaurant 
in  the  Bowery ;  the  place  was  crowded.  Room  was 
made  for  them  at  a  table  by  squeezing  in  three 
chairs.  The  lady  looked  about  her.  Across,  stale 
and  fat  and  gone  to  seed,  sat  an  ex-eminent  of  the 
prize  ring.  At  his  elbow  was  a  stocky  person, 

259 


with  a  visage  full  of  wormwood  and  a  chrysanthe 
mum  ear.  He  of  the  ear  was  given  to  misguided 
volubilities,  more  apt  to  startle  than  delight. 

The  woman  who  wanted  to  see  Paul  Kelly  looked 
at  the  champion  gone  to  sulky  seed,  listened  to  the 
misguided  conversationist  with  the  chrysanthemum 
ear,  and  wished  she  hadn't  come.  She  might  have 
been  driven  from  the  field,  had  it  not  been  for  a 
small,  dark  personage,  with  black  eyes  and  sallow 
cheeks,  who  sat  next  her  on  the  left.  His  voice 
was  low  and  not  alarming;  his  manner  bland  but 
final.  And  he  took  quiet  and  quieting  charge  of  the 
other  two. 

The  dark,  sallow  little  man  led  those  two  others 
in  the  wordy  way  they  should  go.  When  the  talk 
of  him  of  the  unsatisfactory  ear  approached  the 
Elizabethan  so  closely  as  to  inspire  terror,  he  put 
him  softly  yet  sufficiently  back  in  his  hole.  Also, 
when  not  thus  employed,  in  holding  down  the  con 
versational  lid,  he  talked  French  to  one  man,  Italian 
to  another,  English  to  all.  Purringly  polite, 
Chesterfield  might  have  studied  him  with  advan 
tage. 

The  woman  who  wanted  to  see  Paul  Kelly  was 
so  taken  with  the  little  dark  man's  easy  mastery 
of  the  situation,  that  she  forgot  the  object  of  the 
expedition.  When  she  was  again  in  the  street, 
and  had  drawn  a  deep,  clear  breath  or  two  of  long 
relief,  she  expressed  astonishment  that  one  possessed 

260 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

of  so  much  grace  and  fineness,  so  full  of  cultured 
elegancies,  should  be  discovered  in  such  coarse 
surroundings. 

"Surely,  he  doesn't  belong  there,"  she  said.  "Who 
is  he?"  ' 

"Who  is  he?"  repeated  the  Central  Office  dele 
gate  in  a  discouraged  tone.  "I  thought  your  hubby 
wised  you  up.  That's  Paul  Kelly." 

Paul  Kelly  owned  the  New  Brighton  in  Great 
Jones  Street.  One  evening,  as  the  orchestra  was 
tuning  its  fiddles  for  the  final  raise,  a  sudden  but 
exhaustive  bombardment  then  and  there  broke 
loose.  In  the  hot  midst  of  it,  some  cool  hand  turned 
off  the  lights.  They  were  never  again  turned  on. 
The  guests  departed  through  window  and  by  way 
of  door,  and  did  not  come  back.  It  was  the  end 
of  the  New  Brighton. 

Gangland,  which  can  talk  betimes,  can  also  keep 
a  secret.  Coax,  cozen,  cross-question  as  you  will, 
you  cannot  worm  from  it  the  secret  of  that  New 
Brighton  bombardment.  Ask,  and  every  one  is 
silent.  There  is  a  silence  which  is  empty,  there  is 
a  silence  which  is  full.  Those  who  will  not  tell 
why  the  New  Brighton  was  shot  up  that  night  are 
silent  with  the  silence  which  is  full. 

As  usual,  the  Central  Office  is  not  without  its 
theories.  The  Central  Office  is  often  without  the 
criminal,  but  never  without  the  explanation.  One 
Mulberry  Street  whisper  declared  that  it  was  a 

261 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

war  over  a  woman,  without  saying  which  woman. 
Another  whisper  insisted  that  money  lay  at  the  roots 
of  the  business,  without  saying  what  money.  Still 
another  ran  to  the  effect  that  it  was  one  of  those 
hit-or-miss  mix-ups,  in  their  sort  extemporaneous, 
in  their  up-come  inexplicable,  the  distinguishing 
mark  of  which  is  an  utter  lack  of  either  rhyme  or 
reason. 

One  officer  with  whom  I  talked  pointed  to  Elli 
son  and  Harrington  as  the  principals.  Paul  Kelly, 
he  said,  was  drawn  kito  it  as  incident  to  his  pro 
prietorship  of  the  New  Brighton,  while  the  redoubt 
able  Razor  became  part  of  the  picture  only  through 
his  friendship  for  Ellison.  Another  officer,  contra 
dicting,  argued  that  there  had  been  a  feud  of  long 
standing  between  Razor  and  Paul  Kelly;  that  Elli 
son  was  there  in  Razor's  behalf,  and  Harrington 
got  killed  because  he  butted  in.  Both  officers  agreed 
that  the  rumpus  had  nothing  to  do  with  Eat-'em-up- 
Jack's  run  in  with  Chick  Tricker,  then  sundry 
months  astern,  or  the  later  lead-pipe  wiping  out  of 
Jack. 

The  story  of  the  taking  off  of  Eat-'em-up-Jack 
has  already  been  told.  The  New  Brighton  missed 
Jack.  He  whom  Paul  Kelly  brought  to  fill  his 
place  no  more  than  just  rattled  about  in  it.  The 
new  sheriff  did  not  possess  Jack's  nice  knowledge  of 
dance  hall  etiquette,  and  his  blackjack  lacked  de 
cision.  Some  even  think  that  had  Jack  been  there 

262 


that  night,  what  follows  might  never  have  occurred 
at  all.  As  said  one  who  held  this  view : 

"If  Eat-'em-up-Jack  had  been  holdin'  down  th' 
floor,  th'  New  Brighton  wouldn't  have  looked  so 
easy  to  Biff  an'  Razor,  an'  they  might  have  passed 
it  up." 

The  dancing  floor  of  the  New  Brighton  was 
crowded  with  Gangland  chivalry  and  fashion.  Out 
in  the  bar,  where  waiters  came  rushing  bearing 
trays  of  empty  glasses  to  presently  rushingly  retire 
loaded  to  the  beery  guards,  sat  Paul  Kelly  and  a  se 
lect  bevy.  The  talk  was  of  business  mixed  with  poli 
tics,  for  a  campaign  was  being  waged. 

"After  election,"  said  Paul,  "I'm  going  to  close 
up  this  joint.  I've  got  enough;  I'm  going  to  pack 
in." 

"What's  th'  row?"  asked  Slimmy,  who  had  drawn 
up  a  chair. 

"There's  too  much  talking,"  returned  Paul. 
"Only  the  other  day  a  bull  was  telling  me  that  I'm 
credited  with  being  the  first  guy  along  the  Bowery 
to  carry  a  gun." 

"He's  crazy,"  broke  in  Harrington,  who  with  the 
lovely  Goldie  Cora  had  joined  the  group.  "There 
were  cannisters  by  the  ton  along  the  Bowery  before 
ever  you  was  pupped." 

The  Irish  Wop,  whose  mind  ran  altogether  upon 
politics,  glanced  up  from  a  paper. 

"Spakin'  av  th'  campaign,"  said  he,  "how  comes 
263 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

it  things  is  so  quiet?  No  one  givin'  th'  banks  a 
bawlin'  out,  no  one  soakin'  th'  railroads,  no  one 
handin'  th'  hot  wallops  to  th'  trusts !  Phwat's  gone 
wrong  wit'  'em?  I've  found  but  wan  man — jusht 
wan — bein'  th'  skate  who's  writin'  in  th'  pa-a-aper 
here," — and  the  Wop  held  up  the  paper  as  Exhibit 
A — "who  acts  loike  he  has  somethin'  to  hand  out. 
Lishten :  After  buck-dancin'  a  bit,  he  ups  and  calls 
Willyum  Jinnins  Bryan  th'  'modern  Brutus,'  says 
'Caesarism  is  abroad,'  an'  that  Willyum  Jinnins  is 
th'  only  laddybuck  who  can  put  it  on  th'  bum." 
•  "It's  one  of  them  hot-air  students,"  said  Har 
rington. 

"But  about  this  Brutus-Caesar  thing?  Are  they 
wit'  th'  organization?" 

"It's  what  a  swell  mouth-piece  like  Bourke  Cock- 
ran  calls  a  'figger  of  speech',"  interjected  Slimmy, 
ever  happy  to  be  heard  concerning  the  ancients. 
"Qesar  an'  Brutus  were  a  couple  of  long-ago  Da 
goes.  Accordin'  to  th'  dope  they  lived  an'  croaked 
two  thousand  years  ago." 

"Only  a  pair  av  old  wops,  was  they!  An'  dead 
an'  gone  at  that!  Sure  I  thought  be  th'  way  this 
writin'  gezebo  carried  on  about  'em  they  was  right 
here  on  th'  job,  cuttin'  ice.  An'  they're  nothin' 
more'n  a  brace  av  old  dead  Guineas  after  all !" 

The  Wop  mused  a  moment  over  the  unprofitable 
meanness  of  the  discovery.  Then  his  curiosity  be 
gan  to  brighten  up  a  trifle. 

264 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

"How  did  yez  come  to  be  so  hep  to  'em, 
Slimmy?" 

"Be  studyin' — how  else?  An'  then  there's  Coun 
sellor  Noonan.  You  ought  to  hear  him  when  he 
gets  to  goin'  about  Brutus  and  Caesar  an'  th'  rest  of 
th'  Roman  fleet.  To  hear  Noonan  you'd  think  he 
had  been  one  of  their  pals." 

"Th'  Counsellor's  from  Latrim,"  said  the  Wop; 
"I'm  a  Mayo  man  meself.  An'  say,  thim  Latrim 
la-a-ads  are  th'  born  liars.  Still,  as  long  as  the 
Counsellor's  talkin'  about  phwat  happened  two  thou 
sand  years  ago,  yez  can  chance  a  bet  on  him.  It's 
only  when  he's  repo-o-rtin'  th'  evints  av  yisterday 
he'll  try  to  hand  yez  a  lemon." 

"I  wisht  I  was  as  wise  as  youse,  Slimmy,"  said 
Goldie  Cora,  wistfully  rubbing  her  delicate  nose. 
"It  must  be  dead  swell  to  know  about  Caesar  an' 
th'  rest  of  them  dubs." 

"If  they  was  to  show  up  now,"  hazarded  the 
Wop,  "thim  ould  fellies  'ud  feel  like  farmers." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  observed  Slimmy :  "they 
was  lyin',  cheatin',  swindlin',  snitchin',  double-cross- 
in'  an'  givin'  each  other  th'  rinkey-clink  in  th'  old 
days  same  as  now.  This  Caesar,  though,  must  have 
been  a  stiff  proposition.  He  certainly  woke  up 
young!  When  he's  only  nineteen,  he  toins  out  one 
mornin',  yawns,  puts  on  his  everyday  toga,  rambles 
down  town,  an'  makes  a  hurrah  touch  for  five  mil 
lion  of  dollars.  Think  of  it! — five  million! — an' 

265 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

him  not  twenty!     He  certainly  was  a  producer — 
Caesar  was!" 

"Well,  I  should  yell,"  assented  Harrington. 

"An'  then  phwat?"  asked  the  Wop. 

"This  what,"  said  Slimmy.  "Havin'  got  his  v/ad 
together,  Caesar  starts  in  to  light  up  Rome,  an'  in 
vites  the  push  to  cut  in.  When  he's  got  'em  prop 
erly  keyed  up,  he  goes  into  the  forum  an'  says, 
'Am  I  it?'  An'  the  gang  yells,  'You're  it' !" 

"Caesar  could  go  some,"  commented  Goldie  Cora, 
admiringly. 

"Rome's  a  republic  then,"  Slimmy  went  on,  "an* 
Caesar  has  himself  elected  the  main  squeeze.  He 
declares  for  a  wide-open  town;  his  war  cry  is  'No 
water !  No  gas !  No  police !'  ' 

"Say,  he  was  a  live  one !"  broke  in  Harrington ; 
"he  was  Rome's  Big  Tim  !" 

"Listen!"  commanded  Goldie  Cora,  shaking  her 
yellow  head  at  Harrington.  "Go  on,  Slimmy." 

"About  this  time  Brutus  commences  to  show  in 
th'  runnin'.  Brutus  is  th'  head  of  th'  Citizens'  Un 
ion,  an'  him  an'  his  fellow  mugwumps  put  in  their 
time  bluffin'  an'  four-flushin'  'round  about  reform. 
They  had  everybody  buffaloed,  except  Caesar.  Bru 
tus  is  for  closin'  th'  saloons,  puttin'  th'  smother  on 
horse,  racin',  an'  wants  every  Roman  kid  who  plays 
baseball  Sunday  pinched." 

"He  gives  me  a  pain !"  complained  Goldie 
Cora. 

263 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

"An'  mind  you,  all  th'  time  Brutus  is  graftin' 
with  both  hooks.  He's  in  on  the  Aqueduct ;  he  man 
ages  a  forty  per  cent,  hold  out  on  the  Appian  way ; 
an'  what  long  green  he  has  loose  he  loans  to 
needy  skates  in  Spain  at  pawn  shop  rates,  an' 
when  they  don't  kick  in  he  uses  the  legions  to 
collect.  Brutus  is  down  four  ways  from  the  jack 
on  everything  in  sight.  Nothin's  calculated  to  em 
barrass  him  but  a  pair  of  mittens." 

"An'  at  that,"  remarked  Harrington,  who  had  a 
practical  knowledge  of  politics,  "him  an'  his  mug 
wump  bunch  didn't  have  nothin'  on  th'  New  York 
reformers.  Do  youse  guys  remember  when  the 
city  bought  th'  ferries?  There  was " 

"I'd  sooner  hear  Slimmy,"  said  Goldie  Cora. 

"Me  too,"  agreed  the  Wop. 

Slimmy  looked  flattered.  "Well,  then,"  he  con 
tinued,  "all  this  time  Caesar  is  the  big  screech,  an'  it 
makes  Brutus  so  sore  he  gets  to  be  a  bug.  So  he 
starts  to  talkin'.  'This  Csesar  guy/  says  Brutus, 
'won't  do.' 

"  'Right  you  be,'  says  Cassius,  who's  always  been 
a  kicker.  'That's  what  I've  been  tellin'  you  lobsters 
from  th'  jump.' 

"With  this  an  old  souse  named  Casca  sits  up,  an' 
says  he  ain't  seen  nothin'  wrong  about  Csesar. 

"  'Oh,  roll  over !'  says  Cassius.  'Why  even  th' 
newsboys  are  on.  You  know  Caesar's  wardman — 
that  fresh  baby,  Mark  Antony  ?  It's  ribbed  up  right 

267 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

now  that  at  th'  Lupercal  he's  to  hand  Caesar  a 
crown.' 

"Casca  an'  th'  other  bone-heads  turns  to  Brutus. 

"  'Yes/  says  Brutus,  answerin'  their  looks ;  'Cas- 
sius  has  got  good  information.  He's  givin'  youse 
th'  correct  steer.' ' 

"An'  did  Csesar  cop  off  the  crown  ?"  asked  Goldie 
Cora,  eagerly. 

Slimmy  shook  his  head. 

"Th'  Lupercal  comes  'round,"  said  he,  "an'  Mark 
Antony  is  there  with  bells  on.  He  makes  a  funny 
crack  or  two  about  a  crown,  but  nothin'  goes.  Th' 
wind-up  is  that  Brutus,  Cassius,  Casca,  an'  th'  rest 
of  th'  Citizens'  Union,  gang1  Caesar  later  in  th' 
forum,  go  at  him  with  their  chives,  an'  cut  an' 
slash  till  his  hide  won't  hold  his  principles." 

"An'  wasn't  there,"  demanded  the  Wop,  with 
heat,  "so  much  as  wan  strong-arm  la-a-ad  up  at 
Caesar's  end  av  th'  alley,  wit'  th'  nerve  to  git  even  ?" 

"Never  fear!"  returned  Slimmy,  reassuringly; 
"th'  day  they  plant  Caesar,  Mark  Antony  goes  in  to 
make  th'  funeral  spiel.  He's  th'  Roman  Senator 
Grady,  Mark  Antony  is,  an'  he  burns  'em  up. 
Brutus  an'  his  bunch  get  th'  tip  up  at  their  club 
house,  an'  take  it  on  th'  run.  With  that,  Caesar's 
gang  gets  to  goin',  an'  they  stand  Rome  on  its  nut 
from  the  Capitoline  Hill  to .  the  Tarpeian  Rock. 
Brutus  an'  the'  other  mugwumps  gets  it  where  th' 
baby  wore  th'  beads,  an'  there  ain't  been  a  Seth 

268 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Low  or  a  Fulton  Cutting  along  th'  Tiber  from  that 
day  to  this.  Oh,  they've  got  us  left  standin'  side 
ways,  them  Guineas  have,  in  some  things." 

About  the  time  Slimmy  began  his  lucid  setting 
forth  of  Brutus,  Caesar  and  their  political  differ 
ences,  Ellison  and  Razor,  down  at  Nigger  Mike's  in 
Pell  Street,  were  laying  their  heads  together.  A 
bottle  of  whiskey  stood  between  them,  for  they  re 
quired  inspiration.  There  were  forty  people  in  the 
room,  some  dancing,  some  drinking,  some  talking. 
But  no  one  came  near  Ellison  and  Razor,  for  their 
manner  showed  that  they  did  not  wish  to  be  dis 
turbed.  As  the  Nailer  observed,  "They  had  a  hen 
on,"  and  when  gentlemen  have  a  hen  on  they  prefer 
being  quiet. 

"I've  no  use  for  Paul  Kelly,"  whispered  Razor  in 
response  to  some  remark  of  Ellison's.  "You  bet 
he  knows  enough  not  to  show  his  snout  along 
Eighth  Avenue.  He'd  get  it  good  if  he  did." 

"My  notion,"  said  Ellison,  "is  to  turn  th'  trick 
right  now." 

"Justth'  two  of  us?" 

"Why  not?" 

"He'd  have  his  guerillas;  youse  have  got  to  fig 
ure  on  that." 

"They  wouldn't  stand  th'  gaff.  It's  the  differ 
ence  between  guys  who  knows  what  they  wants,  and 
guys  who  don't.  Once  we  started,  they'd  tear  th' 
side  out  nf  the  Brighton  in  the  get-away." 

269 


THE    APACHES    OF   NEW    YORK 

"All  right,"  said  Razor,  bringing  down  his  hand  ; 
"I'm  wit'  you." 

"Just  a  moment,"  and  Ellison  motioned  Razor 
back  into  his  chair.  "If  Paul's  dancin',  we  must 
stall  him  into  th'  bar.  I  don't  want  to  hoit  any  of 
them  skirts." 

It  was  the  delightful  habit  of  Slimmy,  on  the  tail 
of  one  of  his  lectures,  to  order  beer  for  his  hearers. 
That's  why  he  was  listened  to  with  so  much  in 
terest.  Were  every  lecturer  to  adopt  Slimmy's 
plan,  he  would  never  fail  of  an  audience.  Also, 
his  fame  would  grow. 

Slimmy,  having  finished  with  Caesar  and  the 
others,  had  just  signed  up  to  the  waiter  to  go  his 
merry  rounds,  when  Ellison  and  Razor  slipped  in 
from  the  street.  Their  hands  were  on  their  guns, 
their  eyes  on  Kelly. 

Harrington  saw  it  coming. 

"Your  gatt,  Paul,  your  gatt !"  he  shouted. 

The  rule  in  Gangland  is  to  let  every  man  kill 
his  own  snakes.  Harrington's  conduct  crowded 
hard  upon  the  gross.  It  so  disgusted  Razor  that, 
to  show  Harrington  what  he  thought  of  it,  he  half 
turned  and  laced  a  bullet  through  his  brain. 

"Now  you've  got  something  of  your  own  to  oc 
cupy  your  mind,"  quoth  Razor. 

Ellison  was  too  old  a  practitioner  to  be  drawn 
aside  by  the  Harrington  episode.  He  devoted  him 
self  unswervingly  to  Paul  Kelly.  Ellison's  first 

270 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

bullet  cut  a  hole  through  Kelly's  coat  and  did  no 
further  harm.  The  lights  were  switched  out  at 
this  crisis,  and  what  shooting  followed  came  off  in 
the  dark.  There  was  plenty  of  it.  The  air  seemed 
sown  as  thickly  full  of  little  yellow  spits  of  flame 
as  an  August  swamp  of  fireflies.  Even  so,  it  didn't 
last.  It  was  as  short  lived  as  a  July  squall  a^  sea. 
There  was  one  thunder  and  lightning  mcment,  dur 
ing  which  the  pistols  flashed  and  roared,  and  then — 
stillness  and  utter  silence ! 

It  was  fairish  pistol  practice  when  you  consider 
conditions.  Paul  Kelly  had  three  bullets  in  him 
when  four  weeks  later  he  asked  the  coppers  to  come 
and  get  him.  He  had  been  up  in  Harlem  some 
where  lying  low.  And  you  are  not  to  forget  Har 
rington.  There  were  other  casualties,  also,  which 
the  police  and  politicians  worked  hand  in  hand  to 
cover  up. 

Five  minutes  went  by  after  the  shooting;  ten 
minutes ! — no  one  was  in  a  hurry.  At  last  a  police 
man  arrived.  He  might  have  come  sooner,  but  the 
New  Brighton  was  a  citadel  of  politics.  Would  you 
have  had  him  lose  his  shield  ? 

The  policeman  felt  his  official  way  into  the  bar 
room  : — empty  as  a  drum,  dark  as  the  inside  of  a 
cow! 

He  struck  a  match.  By  its  pale  and  little  light  he 
made  out  the  dead  Harrington  on  the  floor.  Not  a 
living  soul,  not  even  Goldie  Cora! 

271 


THE    APACHES    OF    NEW    YORK 

Goldie  Cora? 

Said  that  practical  damsel,  when  the  matter  was 
put  up  to  her  by  Big  Kitty,  who  being  sentimental 
called  Goldie  Cora  a  quitter  for  leaving  her  dead 
love  lying  in  his  blood,  "What  good  could  I  do?  If 
I'd  stuck  I'd  have  got  pinched ;  an'  then — me  in  th' 
Tombs — I'd  have  stood  a  swell  chance,  I  don't 
chink,  of  bein'  at  Bill's  funeral." 


THE    END. 


272 


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